“Christ!” The President’s irritation was clear and easy to understand. It was also somewhat unfair. Tens of billions of dollars had been invested in America’s electronic intelligence-gathering capabilities, but no photo-recon or SIGINT satellite could pry into the minds of enemy leaders or divine their hidden intentions.
“Have you talked to the General Secretary yet, Mr. President?”
The President’s angry snort could be heard across the room. “Hell, no. I tried calling the man direct when this whole thing first blew up. The General Secretary is, quote, unavailable for the time being, end quote.”
Simpson frowned. “So either they’re as confused over there as we are, or they’re all busy scurrying for the fallout shelters.”
“Yeah.” The President shoved his chair back and stood up, feeling a sudden desire to pace. He stalked to the front of the room and stood facing the display map. Europe caught his eye. “Maybe we should start shipping troops and equipment to NATO now — while we’ve still got time. At least we’d be ready if the Russians decide to escalate this thing further.”
“I’m afraid that activating Reforger is impossible at the moment, Mr. President.” General Carpenter, the Air Force Chief of Staff, looked embarrassed. Reforger was a plan for moving American troops and equipment to Europe. Rapidly reinforcing NATO was one means of deterring the Soviets from an attack there. “We don’t have the sea- or airlift available.”
Blake Fowler nodded to himself. The Military Airlift Command and Military Sealift Command were already stretched to the limit just supporting McLaren’s troops in South Korea. Three weeks of almost nonstop operations were taking a dangerous toll on the flight crews and their planes. Three C-141s and a C-5 had already been lost because of inadequate maintenance or crew fatigue — the Starlifters somewhere over the Pacific and the Galaxy in a fiery crash in California. There were enough planes to keep the war in Korea going or to reinforce Germany. But not to do both.
The President just stared at the map without speaking. Then he turned. “If the Soviets do escalate, can NATO hold without the Reforger forces?”
“Probably not, sir.” Simpson shook his head slowly. “Not with just conventional weapons.”
The men and women crowding the Situation Room fell silent. Without enough conventional forces, NATO would have to use tactical nuclear weapons to stop a Soviet armored onslaught across the West German border. And nobody in the room really believed it was possible to step halfway across the nuclear threshold. Five-kiloton bombs dropped on armored columns would inevitably be answered by five-hundred kiloton ICBM warheads landing on cities.
Fowler saw the President’s shoulders sag. None of the options were particularly palatable. Either push McLaren’s planned offensive forward and risk leaving Europe defenseless, or rush reinforcements to NATO while accepting a bloody stalemate in South Korea.
At last the President spoke. “Well, I’ll be damned if I’m going to pull the rug out from under our boys in South Korea. We’ll have to gamble that the Soviets aren’t ready to expand this thing.” He turned to Simpson. “In the meantime, Admiral, I’d like to give them something to think about. Now, we’ve already deployed our missile submarines. What’re my other choices?”
The admiral had come prepared for that question, but his answers weren’t very reassuring. Nobody felt comfortable playing with nuclear fire.
The stars were out, crystalline against the infinitely black night sky.
McLaren stood quietly, waiting and watching. The burning tip of his cigar glowed brighter momentarily and then faded as he breathed out.
“General?”
He turned. Hansen had come outside, backlit by the lamps inside the command tent.
“We’ve just gotten the final signals, General. All units are in position and ready for your orders.”
“Any word from Washington?”
“Yes, sir.” Hansen held his notepad up to the light. “It’s from the President. Just this: ‘Proceed as planned. Our prayers go with you. Good luck and Godspeed.” The captain grinned.
McLaren nodded and took the cigar out of his mouth. “Right.” He checked his watch. “Okay, Doug. Signal all commands to execute Thunderbolt at oh five hundred hours.”
Hansen saluted and reentered the tent.
McLaren drew on his cigar again and stayed where he was. Unseen in the darkness, he crossed his fingers.
The General Secretary had never seen his military aide show such a troubled face before. It seemed an odd look for a man named a Hero of the Soviet Union for gallantry in combat against Afghan bandits. “More trouble, Ivan Antonivich?”
The colonel nodded. “I’m afraid so, Comrade General Secretary. With your permission?” He held up a thick leather satchel.
“Please.” The General Secretary sipped his tea carefully, almost ostentatiously. Like so many of the reforms he’d sponsored, his efforts to curb rampant alcoholism among Soviet citizens were being resisted. As a result, he never missed the chance to show that he practiced what he preached.
“I’ve assembled this collection out of our latest satellite and human intelligence reports concerning the submarine incident and the American reaction to it.” The colonel fanned a sheaf of papers and image-enhanced photos across the Party chief’s desk.
The General Secretary put his glass down abruptly, slopping tea out onto a bone china saucer. He frowned. “Their reaction, Colonel? What of our reaction to this wanton attack on our submarine in international waters? Surely that is more to the point.” He looked at his watch, annoyed. “I asked the defense minister for his recommendations on possible retaliatory moves several hours ago. I’ve heard nothing since. So perhaps your time would be better spent in making sure my desires are carried out, eh?”
The colonel said nothing, although his face reddened. He simply sat motionless holding out the first satellite photo.
The General Secretary sighed, more to himself than anyone else, and took the photo. His aide was a good man, loyal, intelligent, and a committed Party activist, but he was just too stubborn. He scanned the photo and dropped it negligently onto his desk. “So? I see an empty harbor. What is so important about that?”
“That is the main American missile submarine base on the Atlantic, Comrade General Secretary.” The colonel held out another. “And this is their Pacific base at Bangor, Washington. Also completely empty. There are similar reports from the NATO base at Holy Loch in Scotland. Essentially, every seaworthy American SSBN is now at sea — an unprecedented mobilization.”
The General Secretary began to see why his aide looked so concerned. “Go on.”
“Reconnaissance also shows that major elements of the American Strategic Air Command have also been raised to an even higher alert status and dispersed from their normal operating fields. All leaves for their bomber crews have been canceled — even those awarded for urgent family crises.”
The General Secretary felt cold. Had the Americans gone mad? First an unprovoked attack and now this nuclear saber rattling. What were they up to? “You were right to bring this news to my immediate attention, Ivan Antonivich. It should have been done before this by others in this government.” He picked up the special secure phone kept permanently beside his desk. “Get me Admiral Marenkov.”
Marenkov, commander of the Red Navy, came on the line in moments. The automatic scrambling made his voice sound hollow. “Yes, Comrade General Secretary?”
“As chairman of the Defense Council and Commander in Chief, I am ordering you to institute Plan Sanctuary immediately.” Under Sanctuary, all of the Soviet Union’s own SSBNs would be deployed behind a screen of minefields, attack subs, and ASW hunter-killer groups. Once safe in their bastions, the missile submarines would stand ready to strike back should the Americans attack.
“I understand. Sanctuary will be under way within the hour.”
“Excellent, Yuri. I’ll confirm this order by teletype before then.” The General Secretary hung up and reached for a sheet of paper. He began writing with quick, forceful strokes of the pen. “Ivan Antonivich, you will carry this to the Communications Office personally. Under no circumstances will you allow its transmission to be delayed. Understand?”
