especially not if we threaten to retaliate in kind. Although our strategic nuclear weapons cannot reach American territory, we could devastate Britain — and they know it.”
The admiral saw Desaix and most of the other committee members nodding. America’s space-based missile defenses couldn’t hope to block all the ballistic missiles fired at such short ranges. Even if they could, the French Air Force possessed enough aircraft-carried nuclear bombs to turn its island neighbor into a radioactive slag heap. A few of the men in the room, mostly Germans, looked horrified at the turn their planning had taken.
Gibierge ignored them. “If the strike works, and there is no reason to think it will not, we can repeat it against the other American carrier.” The admiral felt his own enthusiasm rising again. In his professional opinion, the limited tactical use of nuclear weapons at sea was the only realistic option. Any other course doomed his beloved navy to certain destruction. “The loss of even one battle group will break the back of the Combined Forces offensive. And the Americans and British will not have time to make another effort before Polish and Czech munitions and fuel supplies are exhausted or they come begging for peace.”
From their expressions, Gibierge could tell that his reasoning had convinced many of the assembled military and political leaders. Desaix seemed to have made the same calculation, because he asked, “When could you mount such a strike?”
“Both carriers are in the North Sea now, but they’re well out of our range. I doubt we’ll have a chance to attack until they begin closing our coast to launch their own air strikes on us.”
Desaix nodded. “Very well.” He glanced at his colleagues before continuing. “Although I’m sure we’ll need further discussion before issuing any final approval, I suggest you begin making all the necessary preparations, Admiral.”
Guichy, Morin, and the others murmured their agreement. Given the French hold over the EurCon military command structure, further discussion would be mostly for form’s sake only. Despite the alliance with Germany, the French nuclear arsenal remained under unilateral French control.
Gibierge felt a mixture of relief and tension pass though him. The prospect of using nuclear weapons was frightening, even to the man who proposed their use. He was relieved, though, because he really saw no other military solution to their situation.
Desaix had agreed quickly, almost too quickly, he thought. That was fine in this case, though, since he’d agreed with Gibierge. Desaix had a reputation for fast action, and for strong, straightforward action. This certainly fitted in that category.
“We will be ready long before the carriers are in striking range, sir,” the admiral answered.
Desaix continued. “In the meantime, I suggest we order our commanders inside Poland to step up their attacks. Let’s try to break the Poles before the damned Americans can intervene.” Nicolas Desaix turned to Michel Guichy. “Tell your commanders to turn up the heat.”
“Alert!”
An incredibly loud klaxon pulled Tadeusz Wojcik out of his lounge chair and a sound sleep. He awoke to find every light on and every door in the operations building opening automatically.
Habit and adrenaline propelled him down the hall and out a pair of double doors onto the flight line. It was already light outside, though the sun wouldn’t be fully up for another few minutes.
Pilots spilled outside into the crisp, clear morning air, jumping into waiting jeeps. Other figures, ground crews and antiaircraft gunners, ran for their posts as well.
Gdynia’s shelters were crammed with aircraft, the compressed remains of much of Poland’s fighter force. One of them was Tad’s. His experience, and his nine kills, had entitled him to a new aircraft, one of the precious replacement aircraft flown in from the States. The F-15’s exhausted ground crew had taken the time to put five German Maltese crosses and four French roundels under its cockpit, along with his name and new rank: captain.
Once the starter turbine was running, feeding power into his Eagle, Tad hooked up his radio leads. “Ocean Leader, checking in.”
The other three pilots in his four-plane flight were also on the circuit within moments. They were all good men, following a well-rehearsed drill.
Tad hurriedly brought the fighter to life. His start-up procedure differed from that for a normal mission. In a scramble, time is everything. The F-15’s inertial navigation system took five minutes to spin up, so rather than wait for it to stabilize, Tad would fly without it, getting steering commands from ground controllers. For an intercept over home territory, that and a magnetic compass should be good enough.
More voices from other flights checked in on the same frequency. Some were voices he recognized easily. Others, less familiar, belonged to pilots from the 34th Fighter Regiment. Polish air losses had been so severe that the higher-ups had combined the 34th and the 11th into one composite unit.
He was halfway through start-up when Major Dmowski, the 34th’s operations officer, came on the line. “Ocean, Razor, and Profile flights, forty-plus bandits inbound. Heavy jamming. Steer two eight zero magnetic after takeoff.”
Tad whistled to himself, letting his hands work while his brain absorbed the size of the raid. The biggest yet. There wouldn’t be any lack of targets out there. The needles on two dial gauges in the middle of his instrument panel quivered and stopped rising. His tailpipe temperatures were stable.
He signaled the shelter crew. As they pulled the chocks and swung the armored door open, Wojcik gently advanced his throttles and started to taxi.
Over the radio, Dmowski issued orders positioning the twelve Polish fighters he was sending into the sky for battle. “Flights, step at one, two, and three thousand meters. Attack anything without positive IFF.”
Craning his neck behind him, Tad saw the three remaining aircraft of Ocean flight following him. Other F-15s swung into place behind them. Speeding up, he turned onto the runway and waited a moment while his wingman rolled up alongside him.
“All flights, new data. There is another raid behind the first. Count unknown, but many. Wait one…”
Tad shoved the throttles forward again and watched the runway race past beneath him. Whatever was coming, he needed to get aloft. He pulled the F-15 up steeply, accelerating fast.
Dmowksi came on the air again, concern filling his voice. “All flights, this is Castle. College is off the air, Climax is under attack. All flights go to free search. Good luck.” He sounded like he really meant it.
The enemy was going after Poland’s radar and ground control network with a vengeance — trying to blind Tad and his fellow pilots before they could close with the incoming raids.
“Ocean, this is Ocean Leader, radars on, turn left now.” Tad pressed his own radar switch and swung the F- 15’s nose to the west. The screen came alive, filled with dots and masses of flickering snow. His threat receiver also lit up, cluttered with so many signals that he was tempted to just shut it off.
Despite the EurCon jamming, the Eagle’s radar had already locked onto a target, almost seventy miles out. Now if he could just keep himself and his flight alive long enough to close the range.
Under his oxygen mask, Tad Wojcik started sweating. This was going to be a hard day.
The Loire River, the longest in France, seemed designed by God to frustrate those who coveted its waters for recreation or for commerce. Quicksand, whirlpools, and swirling, strong currents made the Loire too dangerous for swimming or for shipping cargoes between the towns and cities lining its banks. The river was something to look at, not something to use.
At least not for most.
But there were a few, some of those born and bred beside its levees, for whom the Loire held few terrors. They had learned to “read” the river and each of its capricious moods. They knew its traps and they knew the safe passages between each watery snare.
Jacques Liboge was such a man. Still supple despite his sixty-six years, he rose early almost every day to fish in the Loire. As a boy, it had been a way to help feed his family during the war. After that, he had kept on fishing — for the peace it offered as much as the food.
This Sunday morning, as he tramped down the path to the tiny boat tied to a small wooden dock, he could tell the day would be a warm one. The river coiled west toward the distant ocean, its surface as smooth and unruffled as glass. It was still dark, so he was careful of his footing as he loaded his tackle and sat down. Then, with sure, swift motions born of long habit, Liboge cast off, picked up the oars, and glided easily out onto the
