Cauldron

CHAPTER 7 Countermeasures

Viewers tuning in to the network’s late news program were met by a fast-paced introduction blending dramatic footage and subdued off-camera narration.

The images were familiar but still chilling. Soldiers wearing dark scarlet berets and olive-drab combat fatigues and carrying short, compact assault rifles advanced down both sides of a wide, empty avenue. Two men in each unit watched the rear, eyes wary, while the others scanned the buildings and sidewalks to the front and either side. Frightened-looking civilians caught in their path were stopped, frisked, and then pushed out of the way.

For a moment it looked like Belfast, San Salvador, or one of the world’s other perpetually war-torn cities and towns. But then the camera view pulled back, revealing the chestnut trees and withered flower gardens lining the Champs-Élysée. The great stone mass of the Arc de Triomphe loomed in the distance.

“Paris, under martial law.”

New images flickered across the screen, grainier than the others. Superimposed captions identified the scenes as amateur video footage shot during the past week and smuggled out past German censors. It was easy to see why Berlin didn’t want these pictures aired.

Armored personnel carriers clattered down a Hamburg street, moving fast toward a makeshift barricade manned by shouting protesters. When the vehicles were within a few meters, small groups of masked men popped into view, hurling Molotov cocktails. Most of their incendiaries fell short, smashing across the pavement in bursts of bright orange fire and oily black smoke. One gasoline-filled bottle hit a Marder’s gun turret and exploded, spewing flame across the welded steel deck without much effect. Flashes stabbed from firing ports as the APCs surged through the smoke and plowed into the barricades. The soldiers inside were shooting back.

Several rioters were hit at point-blank range and thrown backward like bloodied rag dolls. Others were caught in the ruined barricade and pulped by spinning treads. Panicked screams rang out above the staccato rattle of automatic weapons fire. Engines roaring, the APCs bulled their way through the barrier and kept going, leaving an ugly trail of smashed furniture, crushed automobiles, and dead and wounded demonstrators in their wake.

“In Germany increasingly violent clashes with left- and right-wing militants have turned many of the country’s largest cities into deadly battlefields.”

The images from Hamburg vanished, replaced by film clips released by Russian state television showing more public executions in Moscow’s Red Square. “In Russia the army continues to tighten its grip on daily life. Rail transport, air traffic, and most of the nation’s industry are now under complete military control. Other former Soviet Republics, including Kazakhstan and Belarus, have taken similar steps. Wary of the chaos in its closest neighbors, Ukraine has put its self-defense forces on a higher state of alert.”

A computer-drawn map covered the screen. More than half the European continent glowed red, indicating countries under some form of “temporary” martial law. Other symbols blinked above both Italy and Spain. Though still under civilian rule, both nations had dramatically strengthened their border defenses in recent weeks, fearing a wave of political refugees from their northern neighbors.

As the twentieth century limped to a close, Europe was sliding back, away from the light and into her violent, divided past.

Chequers, the Prime Minister’s country estate, lay at the foot of the densely wooded Chiltern Hills. Clear crisp sunlight filtered down through tall, gray-barked beech trees, burning away a few stray patches of early morning mist lingering near the ground. Coombe Hill towered a mile to the north, a sharp-edged outline in autumn yellow, red, and brown against a rich blue sky.

Three men strolled through the quiet grounds and gardens surrounding a centuries-old Tudor manor house. Two were tall and lean. The third was slightly shorter and considerably heavier. All of them wore heavy coats, scarves, and gloves for protection against a brisk north wind.

Joseph Ross Huntington III took a deep breath, inwardly rejoicing in the morning air’s cold, clean taste. He’d spent too much time lately in small, stuffy meeting rooms or breathing recirculated air in pressurized plane cabins. “It’s good of you to see me on such short notice, sir.”

“Not at all, Ross.” The Prime Minister shook his head. His bright blue eyes gleamed behind thick lenses. “It’s simple self-interest, really. I’ve always found it a wise policy to cultivate friends in high places. Even when they don’t come swathed in fancy job titles.”

Huntington grinned at that. Britain’s top politician had a well-earned reputation for charm and calculated candor. Both traits had helped him ride out a tidal wave of bad economic news that would have long since sunk other British governments.

“Besides, I’ve been looking for the chance to sort a few things out before next month’s conference with your President.” The Prime Minister glanced at the shorter, stouter man walking to his left. “Isn’t that right, Andy?”

“Definitely, Prime Minister.” Like his leader, Andrew Bryce, the Minister of Defence, had come up through Conservative Party politics the hard way — by merit and not by birth. When he spoke, his voice still bore traces of the broad Yorkshire accent of his youth. “We don’t have time to waste in Foreign Office chitchat and mummery. Not with things going from bad to worse across the bloody Channel.”

Huntington nodded. Meetings between heads of state were only rarely more than formalities — settings for state dinners and photo opportunities. The real work was usually handled on the telephone or behind closed doors and between trusted subordinates. The planned November summit between Britain’s Prime Minister and America’s President would be no exception. If anything, it was now more important than ever that the two allies spoke with one voice and acted with a common purpose.

They turned down a gravel path and walked in silence for several moments. Finally the Prime Minister spoke again. “I suppose your senior officials are especially worried by the Russian situation?”

“Yes, sir. Most of them anyway.” Huntington eyed the Prime Minister carefully. The President had told him not to hold anything back. “The Joint Chiefs have been pushing for permission to retarget our remaining ICBMs and to put Air Combat Command’s bomber force on alert.”

Both Englishmen whistled softly. America’s earlier decision to take its strategic nuclear forces off continuous alert had been one of the strongest signals that the cold war really was over. Reversing course now would send shock waves around the world.

“So far the President’s refused to okay their requests. He doesn’t want to start another dangerous, expensive nuclear buildup. Not until he’s got a clearer picture of what’s happening inside Russia. And in France and Germany, for that matter.” Huntington shook his head. “But he’s under a lot of pressure. A lot.”

He frowned. “Most of the people he trusts are telling him to man the battlements — that the Russian generals will turn their missiles west any day now.”

“I take it you’re not one of them?”

“Not exactly.” Huntington nodded toward the woods surrounding the estate’s gardens and lawns. “I’d trust Kaminov and his crowd about as far as I could throw one of those trees over there. But I don’t think they’re in any shape right now to seriously threaten us. Besides, we’ve still got enough nukes to blow Russia to hell and gone. They know it. And we know it. Plus, the President has told the Pentagon to push our missile defense deployments forward. SDI’s prototypes are coming off the drawing board and going into production.”

The Prime Minister looked surprised by that piece of news. America’s plans for a limited defense against ballistic missiles had been delayed year after year — the victim of a skeptical Congress and tight budgets. As the old Soviet Union crumbled, only the continuing proliferation of long-range missile technology around the globe had kept the program alive. Challenged to find ways to destroy ICBMs before they could hit their targets, the West’s scientists and engineers had come through with flying colors. But Washington had lacked both the political will and the resources needed to field a working ABM system. Now it appeared the President was ready to supply both.

“When?”

“I’ve been told we can launch a first group of space-based interceptors by early next year. The rest of the system will take a lot longer to put in place.” Huntington shrugged. “Still, any defense is better than none.”

The Prime Minister nodded. Coupling America’s remaining offensive weapons with even limited space-based defenses would create a powerful deterrent to nuclear attack. With a screen of missile killers orbiting the globe, no enemy nation would ever know how many of its warheads would reach their targets. That would help make sure that not even Kaminov and his fellow marshals were mad enough to risk a direct confrontation with the United States or its allies.

“What about conventional war? Moscow’s still got masses of tanks and artillery parked round the countryside.” Andrew Bryce broke back into the conversation. Britain’s Minister of Defence sounded more interested than skeptical. Huntington had the feeling he was simply curious about how far Washington’s fears went. “Since NATO’s pulled a vanishing act, what would stop them from pushing back into Poland or the other old Warsaw Pact states? Say, to distract the Russian people from troubles at home? You can’t expect strategic weapons to deter that. No one would believe we’ll go nuclear in a fight for the Poles.”

“Still too risky for them, Andy.” The Prime Minister was quietly confident. “The Russians must know anything like that would unite the whole West against them all over again. And quite possibly pull Ukraine and the other republics in on our side. I seriously doubt they’re that stupid.”

“They’re too busy anyway.” Huntington remembered the intelligence reports he’d been shown. “CIA says they’re conducting a massive purge throughout their armed forces. Show trials. Predetermined verdicts. The works.”

“Our SIS confirms that.”

“Uh-huh. And everything I’ve ever read about Russian history tells me that will tie their armies up in knots for months — maybe even longer. Anyhow, Kaminov and his pals have some popular support for a crackdown at home. They don’t have much backing for expensive military adventures abroad.” Huntington stuck his hands in his pockets. Gloves or not, they were still getting damned cold. He looked at the two Englishmen and shook his head again. “No, I’m not that worried by Russia. Not right now anyway. I think we’ve got worse problems a lot closer to home.”

He hesitated. What he was about to say might strike these men as foolish or pig-ignorant. Several of the State Department’s European affairs experts had already told him as much. But they were schooled in a more comfortable, more predictable Europe, one whose nations fell on one side or the other of a neat dividing line. Allies on one side. Enemies on the other.

The problem was, that Europe no longer existed.

“Go on, Ross.” Both the Prime Minister and the Minister of Defence were watching him closely.

Right. It was time to put his cards on the table. He squared his shoulders and spoke plainly. “Frankly I’m a lot more worried by what’s happening in France and Germany. In the short run, I’m afraid they’re far more likely to cause trouble — in Europe or somewhere else around the world.”

“Why?”

Huntington breathed out. The Prime Minister hadn’t laughed at him or told him he’d gone mad. Had the British already come to the same conclusions? He felt his confidence rising as he outlined the analysis surrounding what had started out as a pure gut feeling.

With its economy collapsing and chaos growing inside its own borders, Russia’s martial law declaration made some sense. It still wasn’t justified, but it was understandable. Democratic government had been a new and fragile experiment for the heartland of the old Soviet empire — one without the strength to withstand prolonged crisis.

The French and German moves to emergency rule made a lot less sense — on the surface. Their economic and political troubles were mostly self-inflicted, and though serious, they were nowhere near a level that could justify dictatorial rule by decree. True, the general strike threatened by their trade unions could have been devastating. But neither government had made any real effort to avoid it through negotiation. They hadn’t even tried to just tough it out — waiting for the strike to collapse under its own weight and increasing public anger.

Instead, both Paris and Berlin had resorted to the most extreme measures imaginable. Both governments claimed they were acting only to maintain public order. Huntington suspected far less noble motives. Governing through military means to save a nation was one thing. Imposing martial law to preserve a particular political party’s grip on power was quite another. Men who would do that were shortsighted, greedy, and completely unprincipled. They were also a potential threat. Once you’d turned guns on your own people, it was easier still to turn them outward.

When he’d finished, the Prime Minister nodded. “That’s something we agree on, Ross. Using force to solve political disputes…” He grimaced. “It’s damned stupid and damned dangerous.”

“Frightening for our friends on the continent, too,” Bryce added.

“Yeah.” Before arriving in England, Huntington had seen the urgent requests from Warsaw, Prague, and Bratislava for more economic and military aid. Poland and its Czech and Slovak neighbors to the south had sided with the free trade forces against the Franco-German push for protectionism. Now they were being hemmed in on all sides by hostile regimes. Spain and Italy were equally nervous, but less dependent on aid from London or Washington.

Britain’s leader sighed. “All of which brings us back to the reason you’re here, doesn’t it? To help decide what we’re going to do about all this nonsense?”

“I guess so, Mr. Prime Minister.” Huntington still wasn’t completely comfortable with his expanding role. He’d been happy to act as an unofficial presidential messenger or fact-finder. Deciding U.S. foreign policy seemed a bit out of his league. It was also risky for the President. He could imagine any number of journalists and political second-guessers ready to squawk about “amateur” diplomacy.

Huntington’s long friendship with the President made him better suited for some tasks than any official emissary. He served out of friendship, not to promote a career or some political agenda. In a time when official channels were full of arguments and public posturing, Huntington also represented one of the only ways a quiet message could reach a head of state. He was the President’s eyes and ears, and his judgment was trusted.

“Well, as I see it, our first task is fairly straightforward. We must issue a joint communiqué opposing these foolish moves to military rule.” Britain’s leader set his jaw. “Something blunt and bold. Something that can’t be misinterpreted or misunderstood by those idiots in Paris, Berlin, and Moscow.”

“That’s all very well, sir, but…”

“But talk is cheap, Ross?” The Prime Minister laughed. “True enough. Still, one has to start somewhere.”

Huntington had the grace to look sheepish. He’d jumped the gun. The other man obviously had more in mind.

“What comes next is a rather sticky question, though.” The Prime Minister’s sardonic smile turned downward into a worried frown. “We’re somewhat short on practical options. I fear we may wind up with a lot of bark and very little bite.”

The American nodded somberly. There were really only two ways to pressure any foreign government — with trade sanctions or with stern warnings backed by military force. Sanctimonious speeches had never toppled a dictatorship or defeated an aggressor.

Unfortunately sanctions wouldn’t do squat in this instance. The French, the Germans, and their client states weren’t buying much that Britain or America made anyway. And the Russians didn’t have the money to buy anything from anyone.

Saber-rattling seemed almost as impractical. When the cold war ended, Congress had gone to town on the defense budget — hacking away to funnel more money into already bloated social programs. Successive presidents and secretaries of defense had fought hard to preserve a core conventional force able to safeguard U.S. interests around the world. They’d won a few victories. But not many. American defense spending stood at its lowest level since 1939.

Most of the armored divisions once stationed in Europe as part of NATO were gone — either deactivated or reduced to training cadres scattered around pork-barrel military bases in the continental United States. The navy was down to twelve carrier groups and barely four hundred warships. The air force could field just two-thirds of the air power available during the Persian Gulf War. America’s armed forces were still the most capable in the world, but meeting a crisis in one region would leave them weak everywhere else.

Great Britain’s military forces weren’t in any better shape. Continuing cutbacks made necessary by shrinking revenues left the Royal Navy and the RAF able only to exert limited control over the Channel, parts of the North Sea, and local airspace. And, after meeting its commitments in Northern Ireland, the Falklands, and other overseas posts, the British Army had little more than a single reinforced brigade available for emergency service.

No, Huntington thought, saber-rattling is more likely to show off our own weaknesses than it is to frighten France and Germany back to democratic rule. He said as much aloud.

“Perhaps.” The Prime Minister cupped his hands and blew on them. “But maybe we can tinker about on the edges.”

This time Huntington waited for him to elaborate.

“I believe we’re both training Polish, Czech, and Slovak officers in our tactics and on our equipment?”

“Yes.”

Once the Warsaw Pact crumbled, the three Eastern European countries had begun turning to the West for arms and military advice. After Iraq’s crushing defeat, Soviet-manufactured weapons were widely regarded as second-rate. Both the United States and Great Britain had supplied the Eastern European democracies with tanks, artillery, other pieces of military hardware, and the training to use them properly. Ironically, much of the gear they’d shipped east had come from stockpiles originally held in Germany to help deter a Warsaw Pact invasion.

It was a long, complicated process, retarded even more by tight budgets and congressional constraints on foreign military aid. Most Polish and Czech soldiers still used old East Bloc weapons. But slowly and surely that was changing.

“Then I suggest that we accelerate and expand those military aid programs.” The Prime Minister smiled thinly. “And that we make sure the news is spread far and wide.”

Now, that made sense. Strengthening the three smaller countries’ armies should help deter any French, German, or Russian aggression. New weapons shipments and more advisors would serve as a visible sign of the U.S. and British determination to support Europe’s few remaining free trade democracies. At the same time, the moves couldn’t realistically be viewed as provocative by the protectionist states. Even a larger force modernization program than the allies could afford wouldn’t give Warsaw or Prague the means to act aggressively against their larger neighbors.

It would also be cheaper and safer than one of the only other alternatives — permanently stationing U.S. troops in the three countries.

“I suspect the President will be happy to go along with that, Mr. Prime Minister.”

“Good.” The tall, slender Englishman looked gratified. Then his expression changed, turning thoughtful. “You know, Ross, all posturing aside, it might still be worthwhile to arrange some sort of joint military exercise for next year. If nothing else, it would be another concrete signal of our resolve to protect our common interests in Europe.”

Before the American could reply, the Prime Minister held up a hand to forestall any hasty comment. “Nothing very grand, mind you. But perhaps a brigade or two of your Central Command troops could participate in our army’s summer maneuvers on the Salisbury Plain.”

Huntington thought that over carefully. On the one hand, it would cost more money. Moving troops and gear over long distances was always expensive. On the other hand, the Joint Chiefs of Staff might consider such a rapid deployment exercise valuable — even without considering the intangible political benefits. When NATO collapsed, it took the Reforger exercise with it. As a result, America’s armed forces had been limited to running small-scale practice mobilizations and troop movements for the past several years. Sending one or two brigades from the 82nd Airborne or the 101st Air Airborne to Great Britain would help preserve logistics and planning skills the Pentagon might need someday to meet a faraway crisis.

He decided to stay noncommittal. If he was sure of anything, he was sure that promising U.S. troop movements went way beyond his vague and extralegal negotiating authority. “I’ll have to buck your proposal on up to the President, sir.” He shrugged. “That kind of decision is pretty far over my head.”

“Fair enough, Ross.” The Prime Minister turned to his Minister of Defence. “Put your staff lads to work roughing that out, won’t you, Andy? I’d like our American friend to have details he can take back to Washington.”

“Never you fear. I’ll stir ’em up, Prime Minister.” Bryce wore an enigmatic expression. “But you know that bringing American soldiers back onto British soil, even temporarily, will bloody well drive the Labor Party’s radicals stark raving mad.”

“Yes.” The Prime Minister showed his teeth. “It would almost be worth approving on those grounds alone.”

The three men shared a quick, brittle laugh at that, eager to find something, anything, funny during a time of growing tension.

Angry and alone, Nicolas Desaix paced around the ornate chamber now used for meetings of the cabinet’s all-powerful Emergency Committee. Empty coffeepots, dirty china cups, and full ashtrays were the only signs of a meeting that had droned on for four hours without deciding much of anything.

Few of his colleagues understood his irritation and impatience. From a purely mechanical standpoint, the republic’s martial law regime was running smoothly. Loyal troops, police, and officials controlled every major French city and administrative region. Government-appointed censors manned the editors’ desks at every television studio, newspaper, and magazine. Several hundred political opponents and union bosses who had resisted martial law were under arrest. A few, regrettably, were dead. And without leadership, publicity, or legality, the threatened general strike had collapsed in its infancy. Even better, recent polls showed a majority of native-born French citizens backing the government’s efforts to restore order and discipline. Nobody bothered asking Arab or African immigrants what they thought.

But Desaix wasn’t satisfied.

For the moment the Emergency Committee held absolute power throughout the republic — power tempered only by the need for consensus among its members. In his view, such power should be used for dramatic action, not merely frittered away in a temporary holding action. Martial law freed them from the twin straitjackets of the constitution and politics. Why not use that freedom to reshape both the state and the continent? To redirect Europe’s energies and resources in a way that would guarantee French prosperity and power?

The need for that was clear. France could not prosper in a Europe torn between rival trading blocs. Nor could it tolerate the so-called free trade babbled about by so many bubble-headed economists. A nation that allowed its fate to be determined by unrestrained competition between private companies was a nation of fools. France had always had a strong partnership between its industry and government and had used its industry as a tool of statecraft on many occasions.

Failure to protect and manage its vital industries would inevitably mean surrendering French prosperity and sovereignty to larger, stronger, richer countries — the United States, Japan, and Germany. And that was intolerable.

Absolutely intolerable. Desaix scowled. Even the thought that his country might find itself in such a state of affairs was repulsive.

There was only one real way to avoid such ignominious crawling. France must build a European alliance strong enough to fend off outside economic competition and political pressure. A league of nations where France could use its status as a nuclear power and U.N. Security Council member to manage its weaker neighbors and keep German interests closely tied to French interests.

But his colleagues were almost entirely uninterested in the larger issues confronting their nation. Instead, they were wrapped up in purely parochial concerns — each seemingly more interested in securing his own power than in the longer-term safety of the state. Desaix found their sluggish indifference infuriating.

A clock chimed the hour. Time and opportunity were both slipping through his fingers.

He shook his head angrily. If the Emergency Committee could not or would not act, he would have to take the necessary first steps toward a new continental alliance on his own. And if that meant presenting his laggard confederates with a virtual fait accompli, so be it.

Desaix spun on his heel and left the chamber. His aides clustered anxiously in the hallway outside, waiting for new instructions and demands. He would not disappoint them.

“Girault! Initiate a thorough economic and military analysis of Poland and the Czech and Slovak republics! I want to know their weaknesses. The points where we can exert pressure if necessary!” The three countries were resisting French and German influence — breeding bad examples in the other Eastern European nations. That would have to stop. He turned to another assistant without waiting for a reply. “Radet! Arrange a private meeting with the German Chancellor. For next week. In Berlin.”

Desaix stalked down the hallway, still trailed by his aides. Their feet rang on marble tiles as he rattled out more orders. “Bisson! Invite the Russian ambassador to my apartment for dinner, tomorrow evening. And bring me the secret file on him this afternoon! Lassere! I need to know how much money we have available in the discretionary accounts. Prepare a report…”

Nicolas Desaix controlled the Foreign Ministry and the intelligence services. That was enough for now. He would use his power and influence to begin bending Europe’s quarreling nation-states to his will — to the will of France.