Cauldron

CHAPTER 21 Corridors

Ross Huntington watched White House gardeners slowly working their way from flower bed to flower bed — weeding, trimming, and watering to restore and maintain beauty and order. The sight of so much peaceful labor seemed strange to him after spending so many hours following the war burning through Northern and Central Europe.

Especially a war that America and her allies seemed to be losing.

Poland’s armies were retreating again, driven out of Wroclaw by superior French and German numbers and firepower. The little Czech and Slovak republics, hard-pressed themselves, had not been able to provide more than token assistance to their northern ally. And Hungary’s soldiers had their hands full just fending off the relentless EurCon drive toward Budapest.

They all needed help, and soon.

Unfortunately neither the United States nor Great Britain could do much yet to meet those needs.

Ever since the first French stealth missiles slammed into Polish soil, the President and Britain’s Prime Minister had been waging a campaign both in public and behind the scenes to broaden the coalition against EurCon and to win clear passage to the war zone. With decidedly mixed results, Huntington knew.

The Netherlands, torn between its free trade principles and the looming Franco-German military presence on its borders, had reluctantly opted for a wary neutrality. That wasn’t likely to change — not with EurCon moving from victory to victory. Spain and Italy also seemed determined to stay on the sidelines, and he couldn’t blame them very much for that. Neither had much to gain and both had much to lose in any wider European war.

To the north, the Danes had proved powerless to enforce neutrality in the skies over their own country. EurCon and allied jets had repeatedly clashed in Danish airspace without any challenge from Denmark’s tiny air force. Sweden seemed content to patrol its own borders and issue stern warnings that all belligerents should leave its shipping unmolested. So far those warnings had been heeded.

Only Norway had sided with its traditional allies. And its decision came only after several days spent in futile efforts to mediate a peaceful settlement. Finally convinced that France and Germany could not be brought to their senses, the Norwegians had at last opened their airfields to U.S. and British warplanes. The first squadrons, F-15s and F-16s from the United States, were due to touch down in a matter of hours.

“Of course I understand your position, Madam Prime Minister.” The faintest hint of carefully concealed exasperation tinged the President’s voice. “But surely you can understand our need to mount a fully coordinated air and sea campaign as soon as possible.”

Huntington turned away from the Oval Office windows.

Right now the President was on a secure channel with Norway’s Prime Minister, sorting out last-minute glitches over command authority. A State Department translator stood by on a separate extension, ready to interpret technical language. So far the young man’s services hadn’t been necessary. Brigitte Petersen spoke perfect English.

Apparently her reply was satisfactory, because the tension in the President’s jaw eased slightly. His voice was considerably more cordial when he spoke again. “Yes, I see… that just might work. Very well, I’ll have my military people get in touch with your service chiefs and Defense Ministry to fill in the details. Thank you, Madam Prime Minister. Yes, good luck to us all.”

When America’s chief executive hung up, he glanced at Huntington, shook his head, and showed his teeth in a brief, wry grin. “Jumping Jesus, Ross. Sometimes I think waging coalition warfare is a hell of a lot harder than going it alone would have been. At least then I’d only have to wrestle with the Joint Chiefs, the Congress, the press, and my own staff.”

“True. Churchill or Roosevelt would probably have said the same…” Something sparked in Huntington’s brain — the faint flickering of an idea. He fell silent, willing it to life.

“Yeah?” The President looked up at his longtime friend and advisor. “C’mon, Ross, I’ve seen that look before. The last time I watched you draw four aces, as far as I remember.”

Huntington shrugged. “Nothing so dramatic, I’m afraid. Just a sudden grasp of the obvious.”

“Like what?”

“That EurCon’s just as much a coalition effort as we are — maybe more so. But we’ve all been talking and thinking like it was a giant French- and German-controlled monolith.”

The President stroked his jaw. “Sure seems to be.”

“That’s the operative phrase, ’seems to be,’” Huntington argued. “But what do we really know about the decision-making process over there? Were the other, smaller member states consulted about going to war? Are they willing to commit their own troops to it? There’s still a lot we don’t know about how EurCon works — or doesn’t work.”

“What’s your point, Ross?”

“That there may be openings out there to exploit — political or military. Fracture lines we could find and pry open.”

The President sat back in his big leather chair, absorbing that. Then he rocked forward and stabbed a finger at Huntington. “Okay, you’ve sold me.”

“Then you’ll have the State Department — ”

“Nope.” The President shook his head and smiled again — the trademark grin that made him look years younger than he really was. It had been a long time since Huntington had seen it. “We both know the Foggy Bottom boys have a real bad case of NIH syndrome, Ross.”

Huntington nodded. “Not Invented Here” was a classic Washington problem. Sections of the federal government’s bloated bureaucracy routinely dismissed ideas, proposals, and solutions that came from outsiders — no matter how sensible, practical, or cost-effective they were. “Then who do you want to pull the answers together? The CIA? DOD?”

“I want you to handle this, Ross. You had the right hunch about how the Frogs blew up our LNG tanker when Quinn and his cloak-and-dagger pals were still scratching their heads. Hell, you were even right about my campaign themes and TV ads,” he joked. The President turned serious. “It’s your ball now. Run with it.”

The National Security Agency was one of the largest and most powerful of all U.S. intelligence organizations. Nearly forty thousand employees crowded its Fort Meade headquarters buildings, with others deployed at facilities around the globe. Charged with managing America’s signals intercepts and code-breaking efforts, and with protecting the security of America’s own classified communications and information, the NSA was also one of the most secretive.

So secretive, in fact, that Ross Huntington wasn’t quite sure if the bland little man sitting across from him ever used his own name. The director of the NSA’s National SIGINT Operations Center seemed the personification of anonymous officialdom. He had a sudden, whimsical vision of the man’s own wife referring to him as “my husband, the director.”

Certainly the fellow had a chilly, forbidding exterior — one that was on full display as he glanced back and forth between the White House letter with Huntington’s credentials and the typed list of what he wanted. When he finished perusing them, he frowned. “I don’t see how I can help you, Mr. Huntington.”

The SIGINT Operations director picked up the list. He pursed his lips and read the key sentence aloud. “‘NSOC should immediately initiate a high-priority effort to collect and analyze diplomatic and other internal communications between the Confederation’s smaller member states.’” He shook his head. “My people are already extremely busy, as I’m sure you can imagine, Mr. Huntington. This project of yours would only absorb staff resources needed for other missions.”

He didn’t say “other, more important missions,” but the implication was clear.

“I would need direct orders from my own superiors before I could even consider such a drastic reshuffling of our priorities.”

Huntington nodded. He hadn’t really expected enthusiastic cooperation from the start, but he’d wanted to give the man a fair chance first. He pulled out a three-by-five index card from his suit jacket’s inside pocket and handed it across the desk. “I suggest you call that number, sir. I think you’ll find I have the authority you’re looking for.”

The SIGINT director’s eyebrows rose slightly when he glanced down at the card. The number had a prefix identifying it as a White House secure telephone. He looked up at Huntington, shrugged as if to show that even talking to an NSC staffer wouldn’t faze him, and reached for his phone.

But his pale features grayed still more when he heard the voice on the other end telling him in no uncertain terms that he would “cooperate fully with Ross Huntington or find yourself monitoring Tibetan radio broadcasts from somewhere in the Aleutian Islands.”

Huntington hid a grin. He’d thought that this might be necessary. Sometimes it helped to have the President himself in your court.

Alex Banich stood in the hallway outside Pavel Sorokin’s office, waiting for the elevator with mounting impatience. How the Russians had ever hoped to conquer the world when they couldn’t even keep their public buildings in good repair was beyond him.

He’d just come from another meeting with the rotund general supply manager. Ostensibly angling for another food contract from the ministry, he had really been aiming to pry out more information on Russian troop movements close to the Polish frontier. They could provide a vital clue to Russia’s intentions in the conflict. Unfortunately Sorokin had turned him away empty-handed.

Banich frowned. The fat man’s fear of his nation’s revitalized internal security services was growing fast. If he kept pressing Sorokin so hard, the bureaucrat might decide it would be safer to turn in the man he knew as Nikolai Ushenko for espionage and take his chances with accusations of corruption and bribe-taking.

“Well, well, Mr. Ushenko. Come to visit us again?” A languid, arrogant voice made Banich turn around.

He recognized the lean, aristocratic officer instantly, remembering that chilling, unnerving meeting last October. A meeting that had come only days before Russia’s civilian leaders “handed over” the reins of government to their soldiers.

Col. Valentin Soloviev was one of Marshal Kaminov’s top military aides. Reportedly he was also the man the marshal relied on for “dirty” work of almost any kind — organizing executions, purging suspect officers, and the like.

Banich forced himself to smile. “It’s good to see you, Colonel.”

“Of course.” Soloviev arched a straw-colored eyebrow. “And what brings you here, Mr. Ushenko? Business?”

Banich nodded politely. “That’s right. I’m trying to drum up a few more government contracts.”

“A merchant who wants to sell more of his goods at a loss? Interesting.” Soloviev stepped closer. “You are a very curious specimen, Mr. Ushenko. Unique, in fact.”

The American kept his mouth shut. There wasn’t any safe reply to the colonel’s barely disguised probe.

Soloviev looked him up and down for a long moment. Then he smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his cold gray eyes. “I think you would be most unwise to keep haunting these halls, Mr. Ushenko. If I were you, I would pursue other, more profitable endeavors instead. Endeavors that do not involve Manager Sorokin or any other ministry officials. Some men I know, very unsympathetic men, are growing very interested in Manager Sorokin’s hyperactive financial dealings. They are beginning to wonder what he is selling to reap such rich rewards. You understand?”

The elevator arrived.

When the doors shut on the tall Russian colonel, Banich breathed out in relief, conscious of having escaped with his cover still intact, if only just. Then he frowned, puzzled. Had Soloviev been trying to intimidate him — or to warn him? But why would one of Kaminov’s top men give a damn about a Ukrainian merchant? He was still mulling that over when the elevator reached the ground floor. Well, warning or intimidation, the colonel’s words locked him out of the Defense Ministry as surely as any padlock.

Surrounded by a brick wall topped with barbed wire, the Royal Navy’s headquarters building was made from the same pale bricks. It wasn’t a particularly impressive-looking structure, but looks do not always indicate importance.

Northwood, headquarters for the shrinking Royal Navy, now also held staffs from the U.S., Norwegian, and Polish navies. Although there had been some spare office space, the place was now packed to the point where it spilled over into several rented trailers parked on the grounds.

Vice Admiral Jack Ward’s offices were definitely not in a trailer. In fact, he and his personal staff had been given some of the nicest rooms in the headquarters. Only Admiral of the Fleet Sir Geoffrey Stone, the Royal Navy’s operational commander in chief, could lay claim to better. Not that the American really minded the First Sea Lord’s more elaborate quarters. If he’d had his druthers, he’d still be out at sea. But orchestrating a coordinated air and sea campaign across all of northern Europe required more officers and communications gear than he could effectively cram aboard an aircraft carrier or missile cruiser.

At the moment, Ward sat in Northwood’s freshly painted conference room, an elegant setting with wooden wainscoting and furniture that looked older than every man in it combined. Some of the room’s furnishings had to have come from the admiralty building itself. As he listened to the morning briefing, he couldn’t help wondering if Admiral Howe had planned his voyage to the rebellious American colonies at this very table two centuries before. A rare sense of tact had kept him from asking one of the British sea officers.

The news was bad. Losses were still high in the North Sea, and the chance of getting anything through to the Poles and Czechs was virtually nil.

Their latest attempt to break the blockade had come to a bloody end.

Two high-speed ships, loaded to the gunwales with badly needed ammunition and spare parts, and armed with jury-rigged defenses, had tried to use night and bad weather to run the gauntlet. Combined Forces Headquarters, the organization controlling U.S., British, and Norwegian units operating in the war zone, had supported the attempt with diversions, probing attacks, and one heavy strike against the EurCon base at Wilhelmshaven.

It had all been for naught. A German U-boat had ambushed and torpedoed both merchantmen near the Skagerrak, with a heavy loss of life. And although the American air attack on Wilhelmshaven had been a success, the moderate damage they’d inflicted could be repaired in a short time. Meanwhile the rest of the EurCon military machine was still intact.

Of course those two merchant ships hadn’t represented the only allied link to Eastern Europe. Cargo planes, flying circuitous routes under heavy escort, were managing to keep a trickle of supplies flowing. But, heavily tanked, and flying long-range, low-altitude flights, their payloads couldn’t begin to meet Polish, Czech, and Hungarian needs. The ships he’d ordered through the gauntlet had carried a hundred planeloads.

With last night’s disaster fresh in mind, Ward was confident that his proposal, reluctantly approved by all three governments, was the correct military decision. Until Combined Forces strength was greater, there would be no more resupply runs.

The only comforting part of the morning’s brief was news about the steady supply of matériel coming from the United States.

George Washington and her escorts were already under his operational control. A second carrier battle group, centered on Theodore Roosevelt, had sailed from Norfolk two days after the shooting started. It was due in range tomorrow.

Vinson, in the yards when the crisis broke, was being hurriedly put back together. CINCLANTFLT had promised him she’d arrive in a little over a week.

The problem was that Poland might not last a week.

The briefer finished up with a long list of air force squadrons, supplies, and personnel arriving in the next twenty-four hours.

George Washington, as previously arranged, was now covering British and Norwegian ASW patrols, as well as adding her own planes to the effort. Special training plans were under way, and arrangements for housing and security were proceeding swiftly, if not always smoothly.

When the briefing broke up, the room began clearing out. Lieutenant Harada, his flag secretary, worked his way through the bustle. He looked worried, and he was careful to speak softly. “Captain Zagloba is waiting for you in your office, Admiral. He says it’s urgent.”

Zagloba was the Polish naval liaison to Combined Forces Headquarters. He was also the senior Polish military man outside his country right now. Harada’s tone implied trouble.

“Did he tell you why he wants to see me?”

“No, sir, but he looks upset.”

Ward nodded. If Harada’s face was any indication, the Pole must be near exploding. He affected a relaxed air. “Well, the captain has a lot to be upset about. Let’s see what’s on his mind.”

Ward’s office, even more richly appointed than the conference room, was a comfortable place to wait, but that didn’t seem to have soothed Captain Kazimierz Zagloba in the slightest.

Tall and ramrod-straight, Zagloba’s slender build had been exaggerated by more than a week of incredibly hard work and emotional stress. As an official representative of the Polish government, the officer took pains with his appearance, but a well-pressed uniform could not hide his gray, lined face or the dark circles under his eyes. Nor could it conceal an expression that mixed worry, grief, and anger.

Zagloba came to attention, then sat down when the admiral waved him to a chair. Ward sat down next to him in an antique chair old enough to have been used by Queen Anne herself.

The Pole got right down to business. “Admiral, my government has asked me to pass on to you, in the strongest terms, our distress at your decision to end all sea resupply efforts.”

Ward paused for a moment and thought carefully before replying.

Zagloba must have taken his silence as a request for an explanation, because he quickly continued, “We are aware of the great risks you have taken for us, and the losses you have suffered. We are grateful. We share your grief. Those who have died will be heroes in Poland forever.” Zagloba fought to control himself. “But how will we honor them if my country is lost?”

His voice took on a pleading tone. “We have done everything we can to protect your ships. We have also suffered losses. There is little more that we can do, but if there is anything that we have missed…”

Ward shook his head. “No, Captain, your forces have reached their limits and gone beyond them. This is not a matter of one nation’s actions or one nation’s failures. Only a trickle is reaching you now…”

“And that trickle may be what keeps us alive.”

Ward answered firmly. “No, sir, it won’t. We don’t have the resources to waste getting that trickle in. Many of the ships on the bottom of the Baltic might have been making their second trip by now. Those merchantmen were not expendable. And some of those lost cargoes cannot be replaced.”

He leaned forward, trying to use a tone that was both friendly and firm. “Pushing more convoys into the Baltic is a losing game, Captain. We’d only be sending our forces into a small sea ringed with hostile bases. That’s playing in EurCon’s backyard, where we don’t even have the firepower to hold our own.”

Ward shook his head. “It isn’t enough to kill individual French and German ships and aircraft. We have to go after those bases and pound them into the dirt. But doing that right means going in strong enough to really hurt them. Piecemeal efforts will only waste our strength without helping you in the slightest. Our forces are massing fast, Captain. When we’re ready, I plan to give EurCon a body blow it won’t forget and won’t recover from.”

Zagloba sadly shook his head. “That will not work if your attack comes too late, Admiral. If the French and the Germans keep advancing at their present rate, you may have to make an amphibious landing in Gdansk, because it will be held by the enemy.”

The admiral paused for a moment, thinking. “Let me show you something, Captain.” Ward stood up and went over to his desk. He picked up an envelope and carefully removed a single sheet of paper. Then he handed it to Zagloba.

“This came in the diplomatic pouch yesterday. It’s in the President’s own hand. As you can see, it’s a private communication, supporting my decision to stop the shipments and encouraging me to do what I think is right. More important, though, is what he says about halfway down, at the third paragraph. I think that’s as clear a statement of American policy and determination as your government could ask for.”

Zagloba read it aloud. “‘The key to saving Poland and the rest of Eastern Europe lies in your efforts to open the North Sea and the Baltic — by breaking the back of EurCon’s naval forces. Without that open door, all the armed might in the world cannot prevail. Make your plans. I know you are not wasting time. The instant you are ready to go, attack, and attack hard. Once we grab hold of the Baltic we will never let go.’”

Handing the note back to Ward, the Polish officer said softly, “Poland has never doubted the sincerity or the strength of your efforts, Admiral.” He sighed. “But I’m sure you can understand my government’s growing concern.”

“I do.”

Ward came to a decision. He’d planned to make the announcement to his own officers first, but restoring Zagloba’s confidence took precedence. “All right, Captain, you’ve made your points. Now, what I’m about to tell you can’t go any further than these four walls. Not to your own Defense Ministry. And especially not to your politicians. You’ll have to calm them down without spilling the beans. Is that clear?”

Zagloba nodded. He knew how easily crucial operational security could be shattered by flapping lips in Warsaw or in London.

“Good.” Ward stood tall, looming over the Polish naval officer. “We’re only waiting for Roosevelt’s battle group and two more submarines. And then I’m going to give EurCon hell, Captain. ‘Counterweight’ starts in forty-eight hours.”