Cauldron

While the military men took over the meeting, the President motioned one of his aides over. “Put a scrambled call through to our Netherlands embassy. I want to speak to Ross Huntington, pronto.”

ABOARD USS JOHN HANCOCK, TASK GROUP 24.1, IN THE NORTH SEA, NEAR THE SKAGERRAK

Even closed up against enemy air or submarine attack, the second major reinforcement convoy destined for Poland sprawled over a vast area. Dozens of merchant ships plowed through the North Sea swells at fifteen knots. Together they carried the M1A2 tanks, M2 APCs, guns, and other gear of two U.S. “heavy” divisions — the 1st Cavalry and the 4th Infantry.

Thirty nautical miles ahead of the main formation, USS John Hancock steamed east with her towed sonar array deployed. Although she was the command ship for the U.S., British, and Norwegian warships escorting the convoy, her position that far out in front made good military sense. No captain hunting for ultraquiet diesel submarines wanted to be any closer to the convoy’s thrashing propellers — the “thundering herd” — than was absolutely necessary.

Tensions on the Spruance-class destroyer’s bridge and inside her combat information center were rising. They were just hours away from entering the narrow, confined waters of the Skagerrak — the preferred hunting grounds for Germany’s surviving U-boats. Although this was John Hancock’s first trip through the deadly passage navy pessimists had already dubbed “Eisenbottom Sound,” every man aboard knew the score. Too many good ships and good crews were missing from the navy roster — sent to the bottom by German torpedoes.

Inside the destroyer’s CIC, Captain Tom Weygandt, the convoy’s short, redheaded commander, leaned over a plot table, watching his tactical action officer, or TAO, lay out a new search pattern for the P-3 Orions assigned to shepherd them across this patch of the North Sea. He frowned inwardly, knowing he wouldn’t have control over the aircraft for very much longer. The P-3s would have to turn back before the convoy entered the Skagerrak. Even with heavy fighter escort, the big, lumbering turboprops were just too slow and too vulnerable to operate that close to EurCon airspace.

“Sir, we have Oboe traffic from CINCLANT.”

His concentration broken by the radioman’s quiet announcement, Weygandt looked up from the chart. “Oboe” was navy slang for an operational priority message — only one category down from the Flash level reserved for enemy contact reports and other emergency traffic. What was up?

He took the message flimsy and scanned it. After the usual routing remarks, its content was short and utterly astonishing. When he looked up again, he hoped like hell the command “poker face” he’d been working on since his years at Annapolis could hide his surprise from his subordinates. U.S. Navy commanders were not supposed to let new orders shake their composure — no matter how unexpected they were.

Commander Avery, Hancock’s skipper, moved closer. “Trouble, sir?”

Weygandt shook his head. “Not exactly, Rich.” He moved to the plot table again, staring down at the sea approaches to the Skagerrak. “But we’ve got a new destination. Signal all ships that we’re changing course in half an hour.” He leaned over the table, took the ruler, and traced a new line out from Hancock’s current indicated position. The line led southwest — away from the Skagerrak and away from Gdansk.

ABOARD USS INCHON, AMPHIBIOUS GROUP, IN THE NORTH SEA

Two hundred miles to the southwest, ten U.S. Navy amphibious assault ships crammed full of marines, landing craft, stores, and helicopters steamed inside a protective ring of five escorting warships — a Ticonderoga-class Aegis cruiser, two Spruance-class destroyers, and two Perry-class frigates. The vessels the warships screened ranged in size and capabilities all the way from the thousand-foot-long assault carrier Wasp down to smaller amphibious landing ships and attack transports. Inchon, a twenty-thousand-ton Iwo Jima-class helicopter assault ship, served as the Amphibious Group’s command vessel.

Admiral Jack Ward waited uneasily on Inchon’s six-hundred-foot flight deck. There wasn’t much that could make him nervous, not after all he’d seen, but mysterious visitors with “presidential authority” were on that short list. Especially a mysterious visitor arriving by air from The Hague, the capital of the supposedly neutral Netherlands.

At CINCLANT’s instructions, Ward had transferred his flag to Inchon from George Washington the day before — presumably in preparation for this meeting.

The message he’d received had said simply that the man he was waiting for carried “orders,” presumably orders that were too secret to be entrusted to anyone else or to regular communications channels. But orders to do what? Ward hated cloak-and-dagger operations. He’d seen enough of that stuff in the movies, and to his way of thinking that was where it belonged.

Inchon’s radars had been tracking the inbound aircraft — a Marine Corps V-22 Osprey — for several minutes. Now the admiral and several “requested” members of his staff, most of them amphibious warfare experts, waited to meet their uninvited guest. Although he apparently had no official rank, Ward had already decided that anyone with the President’s ear was going to get special attention.

If this gent really had that much pull, Ward planned to seize the chance to get a little information of his own. He had a lot of questions he wanted answered. For example, why had the ten-thousand-man Marine Expeditionary Brigade aboard Inchon and its consorts been ordered to stay in the North Sea instead of proceeding on to Gdansk? More important, why were the second group of heavy divisions, even more badly needed in Poland, sailing southwest to link up with this amphibious group instead? And why were Pentagon brass hats suddenly meddling in his bombing target lists? Some targets were added, some deleted — all without explanation. He grimaced. His staff officers were having almost daily go-rounds with Washington and London about the unexplained “micro-management.”

He had the plane in sight now. The big Osprey slowed, its outline changing as the engines on each wingtip tilted from horizontal to the vertical. Hovering now, the aircraft settled smoothly onto the assault carrier’s deck.

Now comes the interesting part, thought Ward. Arriving VIPs were usually accorded some sort of honors, but how many sideboys would a “special representative” expect? Formal shipboard etiquette was not often a critical question — not unless you screwed it up.

After some debate, his staff had recommended an honor guard of marines. The platoon, in battle dress and armed, sprinted across the flight deck and fell in next to a door in the Osprey’s mottled green side.

When the door swung open, a sergeant bellowed “Attention on deck!” and twelve men came to ramrod- straight attention. Ward studied the marines, hoping they would satisfy this visitor. They looked good anyway, trim, fit, and ready for combat.

Not so their mystery VIP. The first man down the steps was so tall that he seemed bent double coming out the aircraft door, and he straightened slowly. His charcoal-gray suit and briefcase looked out of place among all the military colors. Thin and gray-haired, he looked distinguished, but also worn down — as though he’d once been a much bigger, more vibrant man.

He moved carefully down the steps, alert eyes taking in the scene, including the line of marines. Even from across the deck, Ward could see the man’s eyes brighten. He carefully straightened to his full height, walked over to the platoon leader, who saluted, and shook the young man’s outstretched hand.

He turned to Ward, waiting a few steps away. “Admiral, thanks for the welcome. I’m Ross Huntington.”

Ward shook hands, immediately liking the man. This Huntington character looked refreshingly down-to-earth, not at all the kind of stuck-up Washington prig he’d been half expecting and half dreading. The admiral suspected that he had Huntington were about the same age, but the President’s man looked somewhat older, and strained. Just who was he, that they needed him this badly?

RECON FLIGHT, NEAR GDANSK

Two delta-winged jets, French Mirage IIIR recon planes, flashed across the Polish coastal town of Sopot at low altitude and turned south, heading for the distant cranes marking the Gdansk waterfront. At six hundred knots, Sopot’s beachfront houses and hotels blurred into a rippling kaleidoscope of rooftops, chimneys, and stretches of sand. To the east, the Baltic stretched off to the horizon.