Cauldron

CHAPTER 34 Razor’s Edge

“Major!”

Irritated by the shouted summons, Major Pavel Zubchenko of the FIS tossed his newspaper aside. He fastened his tunic collar and stepped out onto the dacha’s front porch. “Yes, Sergeant? What the devil is it now?”

The hatchet-faced noncom who had yelled for him pointed toward the forest. “That smoke’s still rising, sir. And they’ve got helicopters out now.”

“What?” Zubchenko came to the railing and squinted into the distance, shading his eyes against the bright noontime sun. He frowned. The man was right. There, ten or fifteen kilometers to the west, several plumes of dark black smoke were still visible, climbing into a cloudless blue sky. And those small specks orbiting slowly around the rising smoke were definitely helicopters.

He chewed his lower lip, suddenly worried. The first time the sergeant had called his attention to the smoke curling up from an area near Kaminov’s country house, he’d dismissed it as unimportant. Foresters burning deadwood. Or maybe the old marshal’s overzealous security detail conducting yet another exercise or realistic drill. Now he wasn’t so sure.

Zubchenko turned on his heel and went back inside. Russia’s civilian President, kept isolated and under virtual house arrest with his family, had the run of the dacha’s second floor, but his FIS “protectors” had commandeered the whole first floor for their own offices and living quarters.

Moving faster now that his men couldn’t see him, the major went straight to his desk and picked up the direct phone line to Moscow. Nothing. He jiggled the receiver hook impatiently. Still nothing.

Zubchenko turned pale. The line was dead.

“Sir!” Another shout from the front porch brought him outside in a hurry.

He was just in time to see a column of armored vehicles — eleven wheeled BTR-80s — turning onto the long gravel drive leading to the dacha. He could see helmeted soldiers riding with the hatches open. There were regular army troops aboard those APCs, a full-strength motor rifle company at least. The major swallowed hard. “Call out the guard, Sergeant. But no one opens fire without my direct order, understand? These men may be reinforcements for us.”

“Yes, Major.” The noncom sounded unconvinced. He turned and began bellowing orders that brought the thirty-man security detachment onto the porch or into position at the dacha’s doors and windows. Most of them were only half-dressed, roused from their off-shift slumber by the surprise alert.

By the time the last yawning FIS trooper stumbled outside, the BTRs were practically right on top of the building.

A tall, fair-haired colonel jumped down out of the lead vehicle and strode arrogantly toward the porch. To his astonishment, Zubchenko recognized the man. He was Kaminov’s personal aide. Colonel… Soloviev. Yes, that was it.

Zubchenko came down the front steps to meet him halfway. “What the bloody hell is going on, Colonel?”

Soloviev’s pale blue eyes stared right through him. “I’m afraid I have terrible news, Major. Marshal Kaminov and all the senior members of the Military Council are dead.”

Stunned by what he’d just heard, the FIS man felt his mouth fall open. “What? How?”

“They were ambushed. Shot to pieces on the compound road. No one survived.” Soloviev grimaced. “I’ve just come from there.”

Zubchenko believed that. He could smell the smoke and sweat on the man. “Ambushed?” he repeated. “By who?”

The colonel shrugged. “We don’t know… yet. But we found several dead men near the scene — apparently killed by the marshal’s bodyguards. One of them was the head of the French security force.”

“Mother of God!” After that first shocked outburst, the FIS man stammered, “But I thought the French…” His voice trailed off. “Then why are you here, Colonel?”

Soloviev arched an eyebrow in mock surprise. “I would have thought that was obvious, Major. I’ve come to escort the President back to Moscow.”

Although he’d been half expecting that, the announcement still rocked Zubchenko back on his heels. He cleared his throat, unsure of what he should do next. He desperately wished he could contact someone at his own agency’s headquarters. “By whose authority?”

“Authority? With Marshal Kaminov dead, our nation is leaderless and on the brink of war. Just whose authority do you think I need?” Soloviev asked flatly. He stared down at the FIS man in contempt. “Which are you, Major? A lawyer? Or a patriot?”

Zubchenko stiffened. “I know my duty, Colonel. I cannot allow the President to leave this compound without written orders from someone in legitimate authority!”

“The President himself is the only legitimate authority we have left!” Soloviev growled. He stepped closer, speaking lower so that only the FIS man could hear him. “Think carefully, Major. Are you really prepared to fight the first battle of a new civil war right here and now? A battle you will lose?”

Zubchenko felt cold. By training and temperament, he was more a policeman than a professional military officer, but he knew how to count rifles. More important, he could read the iron determination in Soloviev’s voice and eyes. If he tried to resist this man and his soldiers, he would only be signing his own death warrant. He looked away from the colonel’s steady, unnerving gaze, turned to his sergeant, and said through gritted teeth, “Let them through.”

Soloviev pushed past the ashen-faced security officer, marched into the dacha, and took the stairs to the second floor. Russia’s tall, barrel-chested President came down to meet him before he was halfway up. Ironically, eight months of enforced seclusion seemed to have restored the man’s vigor. He looked rested and even a little younger than he had in the days before the generals forced him to declare martial law.

The President stopped on the staircase, looking down with a tight, controlled smile. “Is this a state visit, Colonel Soloviev? Or a firing squad?”

“Neither, sir. Marshal Kaminov and his subordinates are dead.” Soloviev said it bluntly. “My men and I have come to escort you back to Moscow.”

“Back to power?”

Soloviev nodded. “Yes, sir. By the time we reach the city, it should be reasonably secure. Generals Pikhoia and Baratov and their troops are busy now disarming certain FIS and military units… until their loyalties can be ‘determined.’”

The older man seemed strangely unsurprised. “I see.” He straightened up, somehow gaining apparent height and size. “Very well, Colonel. Let’s be about it. I suspect that time is at a premium.”

“Yes, sir.” For the first time Soloviev hesitated. “Our forces on the Polish border…”

“Are about to invade,” the President finished for him. When he saw the younger man’s surprise, he laughed harshly. “Marshal Kaminov was ‘kind’ enough to keep me informed about what he was doing with the nation I was elected to lead.” He shook his massive head. “The thought of Russian soldiers acting as paid mercenaries for the French! What insanity! I’ll soon put a stop to that nonsense.”

Soloviev nodded, relieved.

When they turned to go downstairs together, the President laid a hand on Soloviev’s shoulder. He lowered his voice. “One thing more, Colonel. I know how much you and your comrades have risked to restore our democracy. I only wish our people could know how much they owe you.”

Soloviev shook his head slowly. “We merely did our duty, Mr. President — to you and to the Constitution. Nothing more is necessary.”

“Or wise…”

“Or wise,” Soloviev agreed. “Kaminov and his closest followers are dead, but there are many more like them scattered throughout our military and the ministries. For now they are confused, adrift and rudderless. But that will change as time passes.” His mouth thinned to a grim line. “Who knows? You may have need of us again someday.”

Slowly, sadly, Russia’s President nodded. Both men walked out toward the waiting vehicles in silence.

The high-ranking soldiers and civilians gathered in the Situation Room sat clustered at one end of the rectangular table. They faced an array of video cameras and a giant wall screen which showed their British opposite numbers meeting in the Cabinet Room at Number. 10 Downing Street. As the war escalated, these satellite teleconferences between the allied military and political leaders were becoming a daily routine. However, the scattered news reports coming out of Moscow made this morning’s top-level conclave anything but routine.

Electronic display maps visible to the men and women on both sides of the Atlantic showed the current status and deployment of all Combined Forces naval, air, and ground units. Other symbols, highlighted in red, depicted the latest intelligence regarding EurCon’s military forces. At the moment, the Russian divisions detected on Poland’s eastern frontier were lit up in white. With Kaminov apparently dead, no one really knew which way they would jump now.

The President leaned forward, eager to get straight to the point. The letters ENG glowing next to the symbol for America’s 101st Air Assault Division showed that elements of the division were in combat against French and German forces. It was a constant and useful reminder that American soldiers were dying while they deliberated. He rapped on the table, stilling all conversation in both widely separated chambers. “Okay, ladies and gentlemen, you’ve all heard the tape of my conversation with Russia’s President. He says his troops and aircraft are standing down. The question is, do we believe him?”

The director of Central Intelligence spoke up first. “Yes, sir, I think we should.” Quinn went on with specifics, “The real-time pictures from our most recent satellite pass over the border area showed several troop units on the move in Belarus. They were moving east — not west. Moscow’s orders for a pullback were also mentioned in several tactical communications between Russian field commanders picked up by our Vortex SIGINT satellite over Eastern Europe.”

The President eyed his portly CIA chief narrowly. He suspected the man had other reasons to believe what the Russians were saying — reasons he didn’t want to go into here. Not in front of the British. Just before they’d made the satellite hookup to London, Quinn had been called out of the room to receive an urgent signal from his agency’s Moscow Station. When the director returned, he’d looked stunned at first — almost poleaxed by what he’d been told. The President made a mental note to shake the story out of the man after the meeting. To make sound decisions he needed every scrap of information he could lay his hands on.

He turned to Reid Galloway. “Is there any other hard evidence of a Russian withdrawal, General?”

Galloway, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, nodded firmly. “Yes, Mr. President. Our AWACS plane flying over eastern Poland has detected large numbers of Russian combat aircraft heading back to their old bases. They’re not making any effort to avoid our radar coverage or hide their movements. Those are not the actions of a country still preparing a sneak attack.” The U.S. and Royal Air Force officers seated around both tables muttered their agreement.

“Very well.” The President looked into the video camera feeding his image to London. “What do you think, Mr. Prime Minister?”

The Englishman’s eyes gleamed behind his thick glasses. “I think, Mr. President, we should redouble our efforts to bring this war to a speedy and victorious close.”

“I agree.” The President breathed out in relief, feeling a tiny part of the strain he’d been under dissipate. War with France and Germany was bad enough. The prospect of war with Russia as well had been almost too terrible to contemplate.

His gaze settled on the map display showing friendly naval forces and convoys in the North Sea. If the Russians were really going to stay out of the conflict, it was time to take more decisive measures against the enemies they already had. Time to roll the dice. He set his jaw. “That’s why I’m convinced we should approve ‘Haymaker’ immediately, Mr. Prime Minister.”

The other man sat forward. “You’ve heard from Ross, then?”

The President nodded. “Very late last night. Everything’s set on his end. But apparently our newfound friends are waiting on us before giving the final go-ahead for their own forces.” He glanced at his own advisors, knowing some of them were still very leery of what they considered essentially a political gambit — one that could carry an extremely high military price tag if any one of a dozen things went wrong. “I know there are risks in this operation, but I believe the risks are worth taking.”

Britain’s leader glanced at his cabinet colleagues for a moment. Then he nodded decisively. “Speaking for Her Majesty’s Government, Mr. President, I agree. We must strike, and strike now.”

“Then Haymaker is a go.” The President turned to General Galloway.

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs grinned. “Yes, sir.” He turned to the other British and American service chiefs.

While the military men took over the meeting, the President motioned one of his aides over. “Put a scrambled call through to our Netherlands embassy. I want to speak to Ross Huntington, pronto.”

Even closed up against enemy air or submarine attack, the second major reinforcement convoy destined for Poland sprawled over a vast area. Dozens of merchant ships plowed through the North Sea swells at fifteen knots. Together they carried the M1A2 tanks, M2 APCs, guns, and other gear of two U.S. “heavy” divisions — the 1st Cavalry and the 4th Infantry.

Thirty nautical miles ahead of the main formation, USS John Hancock steamed east with her towed sonar array deployed. Although she was the command ship for the U.S., British, and Norwegian warships escorting the convoy, her position that far out in front made good military sense. No captain hunting for ultraquiet diesel submarines wanted to be any closer to the convoy’s thrashing propellers — the “thundering herd” — than was absolutely necessary.

Tensions on the Spruance-class destroyer’s bridge and inside her combat information center were rising. They were just hours away from entering the narrow, confined waters of the Skagerrak — the preferred hunting grounds for Germany’s surviving U-boats. Although this was John Hancock’s first trip through the deadly passage navy pessimists had already dubbed “Eisenbottom Sound,” every man aboard knew the score. Too many good ships and good crews were missing from the navy roster — sent to the bottom by German torpedoes.

Inside the destroyer’s CIC, Captain Tom Weygandt, the convoy’s short, redheaded commander, leaned over a plot table, watching his tactical action officer, or TAO, lay out a new search pattern for the P-3 Orions assigned to shepherd them across this patch of the North Sea. He frowned inwardly, knowing he wouldn’t have control over the aircraft for very much longer. The P-3s would have to turn back before the convoy entered the Skagerrak. Even with heavy fighter escort, the big, lumbering turboprops were just too slow and too vulnerable to operate that close to EurCon airspace.

“Sir, we have Oboe traffic from CINCLANT.”

His concentration broken by the radioman’s quiet announcement, Weygandt looked up from the chart. “Oboe” was navy slang for an operational priority message — only one category down from the Flash level reserved for enemy contact reports and other emergency traffic. What was up?

He took the message flimsy and scanned it. After the usual routing remarks, its content was short and utterly astonishing. When he looked up again, he hoped like hell the command “poker face” he’d been working on since his years at Annapolis could hide his surprise from his subordinates. U.S. Navy commanders were not supposed to let new orders shake their composure — no matter how unexpected they were.

Commander Avery, Hancock’s skipper, moved closer. “Trouble, sir?”

Weygandt shook his head. “Not exactly, Rich.” He moved to the plot table again, staring down at the sea approaches to the Skagerrak. “But we’ve got a new destination. Signal all ships that we’re changing course in half an hour.” He leaned over the table, took the ruler, and traced a new line out from Hancock’s current indicated position. The line led southwest — away from the Skagerrak and away from Gdansk.

Two hundred miles to the southwest, ten U.S. Navy amphibious assault ships crammed full of marines, landing craft, stores, and helicopters steamed inside a protective ring of five escorting warships — a Ticonderoga-class Aegis cruiser, two Spruance-class destroyers, and two Perry-class frigates. The vessels the warships screened ranged in size and capabilities all the way from the thousand-foot-long assault carrier Wasp down to smaller amphibious landing ships and attack transports. Inchon, a twenty-thousand-ton Iwo Jima-class helicopter assault ship, served as the Amphibious Group’s command vessel.

Admiral Jack Ward waited uneasily on Inchon’s six-hundred-foot flight deck. There wasn’t much that could make him nervous, not after all he’d seen, but mysterious visitors with “presidential authority” were on that short list. Especially a mysterious visitor arriving by air from The Hague, the capital of the supposedly neutral Netherlands.

At CINCLANT’s instructions, Ward had transferred his flag to Inchon from George Washington the day before — presumably in preparation for this meeting.

The message he’d received had said simply that the man he was waiting for carried “orders,” presumably orders that were too secret to be entrusted to anyone else or to regular communications channels. But orders to do what? Ward hated cloak-and-dagger operations. He’d seen enough of that stuff in the movies, and to his way of thinking that was where it belonged.

Inchon’s radars had been tracking the inbound aircraft — a Marine Corps V-22 Osprey — for several minutes. Now the admiral and several “requested” members of his staff, most of them amphibious warfare experts, waited to meet their uninvited guest. Although he apparently had no official rank, Ward had already decided that anyone with the President’s ear was going to get special attention.

If this gent really had that much pull, Ward planned to seize the chance to get a little information of his own. He had a lot of questions he wanted answered. For example, why had the ten-thousand-man Marine Expeditionary Brigade aboard Inchon and its consorts been ordered to stay in the North Sea instead of proceeding on to Gdansk? More important, why were the second group of heavy divisions, even more badly needed in Poland, sailing southwest to link up with this amphibious group instead? And why were Pentagon brass hats suddenly meddling in his bombing target lists? Some targets were added, some deleted — all without explanation. He grimaced. His staff officers were having almost daily go-rounds with Washington and London about the unexplained “micro-management.”

He had the plane in sight now. The big Osprey slowed, its outline changing as the engines on each wingtip tilted from horizontal to the vertical. Hovering now, the aircraft settled smoothly onto the assault carrier’s deck.

Now comes the interesting part, thought Ward. Arriving VIPs were usually accorded some sort of honors, but how many sideboys would a “special representative” expect? Formal shipboard etiquette was not often a critical question — not unless you screwed it up.

After some debate, his staff had recommended an honor guard of marines. The platoon, in battle dress and armed, sprinted across the flight deck and fell in next to a door in the Osprey’s mottled green side.

When the door swung open, a sergeant bellowed “Attention on deck!” and twelve men came to ramrod-straight attention. Ward studied the marines, hoping they would satisfy this visitor. They looked good anyway, trim, fit, and ready for combat.

Not so their mystery VIP. The first man down the steps was so tall that he seemed bent double coming out the aircraft door, and he straightened slowly. His charcoal-gray suit and briefcase looked out of place among all the military colors. Thin and gray-haired, he looked distinguished, but also worn down — as though he’d once been a much bigger, more vibrant man.

He moved carefully down the steps, alert eyes taking in the scene, including the line of marines. Even from across the deck, Ward could see the man’s eyes brighten. He carefully straightened to his full height, walked over to the platoon leader, who saluted, and shook the young man’s outstretched hand.

He turned to Ward, waiting a few steps away. “Admiral, thanks for the welcome. I’m Ross Huntington.”

Ward shook hands, immediately liking the man. This Huntington character looked refreshingly down-to-earth, not at all the kind of stuck-up Washington prig he’d been half expecting and half dreading. The admiral suspected that he had Huntington were about the same age, but the President’s man looked somewhat older, and strained. Just who was he, that they needed him this badly?

Two delta-winged jets, French Mirage IIIR recon planes, flashed across the Polish coastal town of Sopot at low altitude and turned south, heading for the distant cranes marking the Gdansk waterfront. At six hundred knots, Sopot’s beachfront houses and hotels blurred into a rippling kaleidoscope of rooftops, chimneys, and stretches of sand. To the east, the Baltic stretched off to the horizon.

The pilot of the lead Mirage, Captain Charles Bertaud, put his thumb over the camera button on his stick. He and Lieutenant Simonin, his wingman, were only seconds away from their mission objective. Amazing. Even though headquarters had promised heavy air raids on other targets to lure the defending Polish and American interceptors away, it still seemed impossible that they could get this close to Gdansk without being jumped.

It was.

“Missile! Missile! At my six…” Simonin’s sudden panicked radio warning ended abruptly in a muffled bang and then crackling static. The trailing Mirage vanished in a ball of fire.

Bertaud reacted instantly, throwing his aircraft into a series of wild evasive maneuvers that took him out over the sea. A tiny arrowhead shape trailing smoke and flame raced across the sky in front of him and exploded. He jinked again, desperately trying to catch sight of the enemy fighter that had fired at him.

Nothing. Nothing. There. The French pilot caught a brief glimpse of a large, twin-tailed jet behind him. An F-15! Suddenly the pursuing fighter’s silhouette began changing rapidly — showing more wing and fuselage. It was turning away!

For a split second Bertaud’s aggressive instincts took over. Although it was configured for reconnaissance, his Mirage mounted heat-seeking air-to-air missiles for self-defense. Why not turn after the apparently fleeing Eagle and take revenge for poor Simonin? Common sense pushed the thought away.

The F-15 pilot would never have abandoned his chase without good reason. He must be right on the edge of the SAM envelope surrounding Gdansk harbor — inside the zone where all incoming aircraft were automatically treated as hostile and fair game for the Hawk and Patriot batteries ringing the city. Bertaud pulled hard on the stick, bringing the Mirage around to the south again. Gdansk’s waterfront cranes were closer now — only kilometers away.

Beep-beep-beep.

His threat receiver went off and he dove for the deck, seeking cover from the enemy fire control radar hunting for him.

Flying just meters above the waves now, the Mirage shuddered, bucked, and rolled as it punched through layers of choppy air. Grimly determined now, Bertaud gripped the stick tighter, guiding his aircraft through the turbulence and toward the Polish port.

A SAM rose from the coast right ahead of him, climbing on a pillar of smoke and fire. He tensed, knowing he didn’t have the time or altitude to try evading the incoming missile. All he could do was hold his course and pray. With luck, the American-made radar wouldn’t be able to hold its lock on him this low.

His luck was in. The SAM streaked overhead and exploded far above and behind him. Before the enemy battery could fire again, he was over the city itself.

Bertaud eased back on his stick, climbing to clear the warehouses, shops, and homes lining the waterfront. His thumb settled back over the camera button on his stick. Any second now…

Still moving at high speed, the Mirage thundered over one last row of buildings and came out over the ship-crowded harbor. Now! He stabbed the camera button and leveled off.

Spewing flares to decoy away any hand-held SAMs fired from the merchant vessels below, Bertaud made one lightning-quick pass over the harbor area — racing above at least a dozen large transports and freighters tied up along the docks, uniformed men scattering for cover, and hundreds of camouflaged armored vehicles parked nose-to-tail on the quay. My God.

He keyed his radio. “Scout Control, this is Scout Leader! The Americans are landing their heavy equipment. Repeat, the Americans are already landing their heavy equipment.”

With his mission completed, Bertaud turned away, heading for safety at full military power.

He never saw the radar-guided surface-to-air missile speeding after him. The Hawk’s powerful warhead went off right behind the recon jet’s starboard wing and ripped it off. Cloaked in flame, the Mirage III cartwheeled into the water and exploded.

The first reports of Captain Bertaud’s radioed warning reached Paris well after dark.

In private conference with the head of the DGSE and the Minister of Defense, Nicolas Desaix sat staring down at his desk with his shoulders hunched as he absorbed this latest piece of horribly bad news. All the exhilaration of the morning generated by Ambassador Sauret’s report that the Russians would join the war had turned to ashes in his mouth.

He grimaced. The news from Moscow was still very sketchy, but it was clear that Marshal Kaminov and his followers were dead — and with them any hope of a Franco-Russian treaty. Even worse, it appeared that Russia’s civilian President had regained power. The man was notoriously pro-American. How had this happened? Who had betrayed them? He looked up at Morin. “You still haven’t been able to make contact with Duroc?”

The intelligence director shook his head, looking very worried. “No, Minister. And no one at our embassy has seen the major or his surveillance team for more than twenty-four hours.”

“Impossible!”

Michel Guichy stirred in his chair. “Impossible or not, Nicolas, they are missing.” The Defense Minister shrugged. “Perhaps they are dead. Or held prisoner. What difference does it really make in the greater scheme of things? We face far more pressing problems.”

The big Norman leaned forward. “Without the Russians on our side, we have just one chance left for victory. We must seize Gdansk before more American reinforcements arrive.”

“Tell me something I don’t already know, Guichy!” Growing despair stripped away Desaix’s thin veneer of politeness. Then, with an effort, he regained a measure of self-control. “You’ve spoken with our field commanders?”

Guichy nodded. “They say it is still possible.”

“How?” For the first time in hours, Desaix felt a measure of hope. Perhaps the war was not lost, after all.

“These armored units our reconnaissance pilot spotted were still unloading. Meanwhile the American and Polish divisions deployed near Bydgoszcz are still very weak and spread too thinly over too wide an area,” the Defense Minister said. “General Montagne and the other commanders are convinced that once our tanks and troops punch a hole in those defenses and pour through, the enemy won’t be able to stop us short of the port.”

“When do we attack again?” Desaix asked eagerly.

“Tomorrow, at first light.”