“Okay, then, Kev. Get your people saddled up. Brigade wants us on the road in two zero minutes. We’re going back to Point Little Rock to set up a new line. Out.”
Kevin signed off and then fumbled inside his tunic for the list of new geographic code names they’d been issued just that morning. He ran his finger down the columns until he found Point Little Rock. Jesus Christ. They were going all the way back to Suwon, an ancient, walled city south of Seoul.
He sat in the truck cab for a moment, feeling cold despite warm air blowing through the dashboard vents. He was caught up in a total disaster. They were losing Seoul. Hell, they were losing the war.
General Carpenter’s soft Georgia drawl rolled easily across the ear. His words weren’t so comforting. “There’s no way round it. Out projections show our pilot losses reaching the critical point. These strikes against hardened targets in North Korea are bleeding us dry.”
The Air Force Chief of Staff clicked to the next slide. “To keep our squadrons in the ROK up to strength, we’re going to have to start cutting into the pool of combat-qualified pilots we’ve earmarked for Europe should a crisis erupt there.” Carpenter paused and looked over at his Navy counterpart. “I understand the Navy’s in a similar fix.”
Admiral Fox nodded somberly. “A few more raids like this last one and we’ll have to start stripping pilots out of our Atlantic Fleet squadrons.” Fox, the Chief of Naval Operations, was a medium-sized man who still wore his white hair in a crew cut. He also wore aviator wings on his uniform.
Carpenter studied the assembled NSC crisis team carefully, measuring out each of his next words. “Put simply, ladies and gentlemen, we no longer have the human resources to be everywhere at once.”
Murmurs swept through the Situation Room. The implications of Carpenter’s report were both clear and troubling. The longer the war in Korea went on, the more pilots would be lost. The more pilots lost, the weaker the U.S. Air Force and the Navy’s carrier air wings would be if the conflict escalated. And the longer the war went on, the more likely it would escalate.
The assistant secretary of state for East Asian and Pacific Affairs stopped tamping down his pipe and looked up, impatience clearly written across his face. “Why can’t you meet your needs by calling up some of your reserves, General? I’d always heard that most of the airline pilots in this country learned how to fly in the Air Force. Surely you’ve kept track of those men?”
Carpenter kept his tone level. “Yes, we have. A lot of ’em are in the Air National Guard squadrons that we’ve already called up. But those who weren’t will have to get some pretty intensive refresher training. And that takes time — time we’re not likely to get.”
Blake Fowler leaned forward in his chair. The President had asked him to chair the crisis team in Putnam’s place. Putnam, meanwhile, was up on the Hill soothing Congress, and the President had made it clear that he was expected to stay up there until further notice. The Chief Executive apparently didn’t want his so-called national security adviser in a position to cause more damage to the nation’s interests. At the same time, he wanted to avoid a messy personnel crisis while trying to cope with a major war. So, officially, Putnam still had his job, even though Blake had to all intents and purposes replaced him.
Blake found it an uncomfortable position to be in. It smacked too much of the kind of petty political infighting and intrigue that he’d always despised. And he wondered, now that backroom maneuvering had worked to his advantage, whether or not his outlook would change. He hoped not. He’d rather reside in academic obscurity somewhere than turn into something resembling George Putnam.
He nodded to the Air Force general. “Have you got anything else to give us right now, General?”
Carpenter shook his head. “No. Not right now. I just want to make sure that the President knows how thin we’re getting stretched. This thing is sliding across the edge of being a purely local crisis.”
Blake nodded. Carpenter’s assessment on narrow grounds matched his own broader-based view of the situation. The Soviets were growing ever bolder in their support of North Korea. Satellite photos clearly showed trains loaded with new artillery, replacement tanks, and aircraft rolling across the border at Hongui. And Warsaw Pact merchant ships laden with military gear crowded North Korea’s ports.
China’s support for Kim Il-Sung’s invasion was somewhat more tepid. But it was there, nonetheless. Chinese munitions trains packed the yards at Sinuiju. Blake had seen the transcript of the meeting between the PRC’s premier and the American ambassador to Beijing. The language used had been convoluted, carefully obscure, but the message it conveyed had been clearer. Continued North Korean victories would bring continued Chinese support.
And now the North Koreans were across the Han River barrier and driving south. McLaren’s latest telex made it clear that he expected Seoul to be completely surrounded within hours. Where things went from there, Blake couldn’t imagine. So far, every success the allied forces had gained had been only temporary — with each small victory followed short hours later by some new setback.
Blake shook his head and turned to the crisis team’s next agenda item. The U.S. and South Korea were going to have to start winning some soon, or this war was going to flare out of control.
CHAPTER 35
Boiling Point
Blake Fowler watched the frown on the President’s face grow deeper as he listened to the taped voices and bursts of static. The Chief Executive seemed to have aged at least ten years in the nine days since casualty reports began streaming in from Korea. Fatigue and tension had worn new furrows in his face, his hair had thinned noticeably, and the eyes that had looked so open and honest in TV campaign commercials were now red-rimmed and darkly shadowed. Looking at him, Blake decided that the only thing that must be worse than governing the United States during a war was governing it during a war that was being lost.
When the tape came to an end, the President sat quietly for a moment, staring across his desk at a point somewhere off in space. Then he reached out and laid a finger on the printout in front of him. “And this is a verbatim transcript and translation of what I’ve just heard?”
“Yes, Mr. President. One of our signals intelligence aircraft intercepted those transmissions from the MiG-29 fighters engaging Navy jets over the Yellow Sea two days ago.”
“Why’d it take so damned long to get here?”
Blake didn’t react to the President’s irritation. It was understandable, if unfair. “Rivet intercepts literally thousands of hours worth of enemy communications, sir. It takes time and a lot of expertise to ferret out the wheat from the chaff. They found this transmission at two o’clock this morning, our time.”
The President eyed Blake angrily for a second longer, then his gaze softened, and he wearily nodded his understanding. He swung round toward the Oval Office window. Snow cloaked the Rose Garden. The high-backed chair muffled his voice when he spoke again. “The U.N. Security Council is meeting again tonight to discuss the situation in Korea, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. At seven o’clock. The Soviets have been delaying things with procedural motions, but they’ve run out of those.”
The President swiveled back to face Blake. He put a hand on the cassette tape player in front of him. “Well, what do you think about using this in the debate?”
Blake considered his answer carefully. “The intelligence community will object, sir, but — ”
“I’m not asking them. I’m asking you.”
“Yes, Mr. President, you are.” Blake took his glasses off briefly, polished them with a handkerchief, and put them back on his nose. “I think we should play every last second of this intercept. Normally, it’s vital to protect intelligence sources and methods, but the North Koreans know we have things like Rivet. We wouldn’t be fooling anybody by denying it. We’ve used them in the past to prove our case. The political impact of those tapes outweighs normal security precautions.”
He paused, feeling slightly uneasy at speaking of politics so glibly. It made him sound like George Putnam.
