Cauldron

CHAPTER 38 New Beginnings

The President’s smiling face was the first thing Ross Huntington saw when he walked into the Oval Office. It was hard to recognize him as the same coldly determined leader who had sent him off to Europe to break EurCon to pieces. “Ross! Come on in and take a pew.”

Huntington dropped lightly into a chair, amazed to find himself feeling better than he had in years. Considering how he’d spent the past few weeks, that was strange: First the sleepless days and nights at sea off an enemy coast. Then the twenty-hour days he’d spent shuttling between European capitals to patch together a temporary armistice. And finally the long, red-eye flight home. By any rational measure, he should be dead on his feet. Maybe even dead, period — given his prior medical history. But victory and the prospect of a lasting peace seemed to be a better tonic than bed rest.

He said as much to the President.

The other man nodded, still grinning. “Damn right. I feel like a kid again myself.”

That wasn’t quite true, Huntington thought, studying his longtime friend carefully. New lines and creases on what had once been a boyish face showed where the strains and stresses of war had taken a permanent toll.

Still, the President’s essential optimism remained intact. It came roaring to the surface as the two men talked about what came next. “At least now we’ve got a real chance to put the world back on the right track! A real window of opportunity.”

Huntington nodded. Thoroughly discredited by the war, the apostles of ultra-nationalism and protectionism were in retreat around the globe. Shocked by the sight of so many new blood-soaked battlefields, politicians and peoples alike seemed ready to lay aside old hatreds and misguided ambitions. But how long would that last? “That window could slam shut pretty damn fast, Mr. President,” he warned.

“I know.” The President’s gaze turned inward. “We’ve paid a high price for this peace. I don’t intend to see it thrown away. Not this time.”

Huntington knew what he meant by that. Transfixed by domestic squabbles after the cold war ended, the world’s industrial nations had turned inward and against each other. Recessions had bred resentment — resentment against “foreigners” and “foreign”-made products. And cynical politicians had made use of those resentments for their own gain. Protective tariffs had spawned more tariffs and more trade restrictions in a vicious cycle of retaliation and counter-retaliation. The trade wars and festering racial and ethnic hatreds had all been part of a long, ugly, melancholy slide toward real war — wars between neighbors and between nations.

He asked, “What exactly do you have in mind?”

“A new alliance among nations. An alliance based on four firm principles: free trade, free enterprise, free markets, and free governments. An alliance that isn’t limited to a single continent or a single ocean.” The President laughed self-consciously. “Not much to ask, is it?” He turned serious. “It’s the only real way I know to promote peace, Ross. Prosperous democracies don’t make war on one another. All the treaties and solemn pledges in the world don’t mean anything unless they’re backed by goodwill and shared interests.”

Huntington nodded. “Building something like that won’t be easy.”

“Nope. It sure won’t,” the President agreed. “But since this is the third time we’ve picked up the pieces in Europe this century, the United States has a lot of moral authority and practical power right now. And I plan to use every last bit of it.” He glanced toward the phone on his desk. “I just finished talking with the British, and we’ve agreed to jointly sponsor talks in London beginning as soon as possible.”

“Who’s invited?”

The President smiled. “Since we plan to start small, just Europe, Canada, Mexico, and the United States for now. Eventually? Say in a few months? The whole world. It’ll take a hell of a lot of hard work and some fancy footwork — especially from whoever gets the unenviable task of shepherding the conference through to completion.” The President’s smile grew wider as it became clear that Huntington was his choice for the job.

Huntington felt the first flicker of alarm.

“So, what do you say, Ross? Have any other urgent plans? Golf? Tennis? A summer by the shore?”

He shifted awkwardly in his chair. “But… you can’t be serious, Mr. President. I’m not a statesman.”

“I’m perfectly serious,” the President said firmly. “You’re honest. You’re intelligent. You don’t put up with bullshit. And that’s exactly the kind of statesman the world needs right now.” He got up from behind his desk and laid a hand on Huntington’s shoulder. “You’ve served your country in the shadows long enough, Ross. It’s time to step out into the light.”

Feeling stiff and awkward in his new dress uniform, Zoltan Hradetsky stood among a host of other dignitaries on the tarmac — waiting impatiently while the British Airways jetliner from Paris taxied off the runway and turned toward them. The twin silver stars on each shoulder board that proclaimed him a major general seemed to weigh a ton apiece. Give me enough time, he thought, and I will become accustomed to them. The rank bothered him. The job that went with the stars did not.

As the new commander of Hungary’s National Police, Hradetsky was charged with reforming and reorganizing his country’s law enforcement organizations. It was a mission he’d been preparing for all his adult life. He was already seeking organizational and training aid from the American FBI and Britain’s CID. For once he could be sure of getting foreign advisors who would come bringing sound counsel, not seeking covert control.

The passenger jet rolled to a stop in front of the assembled crowds, and airport workers rushed a mobile staircase into place against its forward cabin door. When the door swung open, an army honor guard came to attention. Drums rolled softly as a band began playing the national anthem.

Hradetsky held his breath, waiting until Vladimir Kusin, tall and unbowed by his captivity, walked out into the afternoon sunlight. Hungary’s new President had come safely home.

Nicolas Desaix paced angrily back and forth through the darkness. He’d been penned up inside this special holding cell for days — held incommunicado while the newly formed Sixth Republic prepared to try him for crimes against the French people and against humanity. Aside from the prosecutors building the case against him, he’d been visited only by two doctors who had warned him against high blood pressure and prescribed medications that he’d immediately thrown back in their faces. He snorted in contempt. How absurd this false concern for his health was! Clearly the government only wanted to make sure he lived long enough to serve as a scapegoat.

He scowled. Perhaps Guichy had chosen the best path, after all. A bullet in the brain might be preferable to this prolonged mockery of justice.

Desaix shrugged the thought away. He would not surrender so tamely. The years he’d spent in the upper echelons of the intelligence service and the French government had given him access to many secrets — secrets that could prove highly embarrassing to a number of important officials. If bargaining failed, he could always use a public trial to drag others down with him. That, at least, would be a kind of pleasure.

A key rattled in his cell door. He turned in surprise. More visitors? This late?

The door flew open and three men crowded inside. Desaix recognized one of them, Philippe Gille, the head of the DGSE’s Action Service — its covert operations wing. The other two were mere thugs, the kind of petty criminals the Action Service often employed for deniable missions.

Desaix’s alarm turned to panic when he saw the surgical gloves on their hands. He opened his mouth, trying to scream. It was too late.

Something cold and sharp pricked his forearm. Pain flared in his chest, and he spiraled down into blackness and then oblivion.

Several hours later, an elderly police doctor rose awkwardly from beside the contorted body. He sighed, taking the stethoscope out of his ears.

“Well?” The chief prosecutor looked thoroughly irked. Desaix’s testimony would have been an invaluable aid in the new French government’s efforts to reform and reorder the various intelligence agencies. This death would complicate matters. Still, it showed that his probes were hitting nerves in certain, secretive quarters.

“I am sorry, Monsieur Prosecutor. It appears that the minister died sometime late last night of a massive heart attack. As I feared would happen.” The doctor, a short, thin white-haired man named Arnault, shrugged nervously. “It is a great pity.”

“I see. A very convenient heart attack for some, wouldn’t you say, Doctor?” The prosecutor studied him for another few moments, as though waiting for more. When the doctor stayed silent, his mouth tightened. He turned and signaled through the door. Two more men moved into the holding cell. Both carried medical bags of their own.

The prosecutor turned back to a now visibly worried Arnault. “I’m sure you understand that I must have my own experts verify your findings.” He glanced at the two waiting men. “Check for anything unusual. Needle marks, bruising, you know the sort of thing.”

They nodded somberly.

The police doctor began trembling slightly but noticeably. The DGSE men had promised him protection from this grim, implacable official. Now Arnault was beginning to suspect that the intelligence agents had overestimated their remaining authority and underestimated the determination of their new superiors to make a clean sweep. “On reflection, Monsieur Prosecutor, I must confess that I noticed certain things that are perhaps inconsistent with my earlier, preliminary diagnosis.”

“Oh?” The prosecutor turned his head slowly. “How very interesting, Dr. Arnault.” He laid a firm hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Then why don’t we go to my office and discuss exactly what else and who else you are beginning to remember?”

Erin McKenna sat in the antechamber outside the Oval Office. Unable to stop herself, she checked her watch again, wishing she weren’t so nervous. Still, how many people in the United States were ever invited to a private meeting with the President? She glanced to her right, comforted by the sight of Alex Banich sitting at her side. He smiled back.

Despite their best intentions, they hadn’t had much time together since returning from Moscow. Len Kutner, appalled by the risks they’d run and elated by their success, had shipped them back to Washington as soon as he safely could. Since then, Erin and Alex had both been kept hopping — briefing what seemed like every section head and file clerk in the CIA on the situation inside Russia. But, under explicit orders from the director of Central Intelligence himself, never, never, never mentioning their own role in Marshal Kaminov’s assassination.

“Ms. McKenna? Mr. Banich?”

They looked up.

A secretary motioned them toward the door. “The President can see you now.”

Heart pounding, Erin rose and followed Alex into the Oval Office.

The President himself was waiting for them, standing alone by the windows overlooking the White House Rose Garden. He smiled broadly when they came in and stepped forward to greet them both with a firm, friendly handshake. “Ms. McKenna and Mr. Banich! I’m very glad to finally meet you.”

He looked older than he did on television, but also more human. She could see real warmth in his eyes. The next few moments passed in a whirl of polite conversation.

Suddenly the President’s manner became far more formal. He gathered two small boxes off his desk and flipped them open. Each contained a medal and a length of ribbon to hold it. “Erin McKenna and Alexander Banich, it is my great privilege to award you each with the Medal of Freedom — the highest civilian honor a grateful nation can bestow.”

Blushing now, Erin and Alex bent their heads one after the other, allowing him to slip the medals over their necks.

Then, amazingly enough, the President seemed embarrassed himself. “Of course, I have to ask for them back before you leave.” He grinned, shamefaced. “Since we don’t exactly want the whole world to know just how that old bastard Kaminov met his very timely end, your awards are classified Top Secret!”

Erin couldn’t help it. She had to laugh. Giving you a medal you couldn’t talk about or show off was just so typical of the way the government worked.

The President laughed with her. He stopped her when she tried to apologize. “No need for that, Ms. McKenna! You’re absolutely right. I only hope you’ll let me offer you something more concrete. Not exactly a reward, though. Just another chance to do more hard work for your country.”

She nodded. “Of course, Mr. President.”

“Good. I’d like to send you to Great Britain. To work as a senior staffer on the U.S. delegation to the London Conference.” He sounded pleased. “Ross Huntington needs a trade expert — especially someone skilled at stripping away phony numbers and deceptive claims.”

The President arched a skeptical eyebrow. “The world may be singing songs of goodwill and fellowship right now, but neither Ross nor I believe we’ve reached the Millennium. There are still going to be people and countries out there who bear close watching.”

Erin and Alex both nodded. There was plenty of proof of that everywhere you looked. Still, progress was being made. Right now, for example, the newspapers and television news programs were full of revelations from Paris. Even killing Desaix to shut him up hadn’t saved the hard-line elements of the French secret services. If anything, his murder seemed to have energized the Sixth Republic’s investigations. Every passing day saw new details of the old French government’s unsavory, often illegal, doings come to light. Dozens of high-and middle-ranking DGSE officials were either under arrest or in forced retirement. For the first time in decades, it appeared that France might actually gain control over its shadowy “government within a government.”

The President looked toward Alex. “As for you, Mr. Banich, I think we’d both agree that your days as a field agent are numbered.”

The CIA officer nodded slowly. He’d known that ever since Soloviev penetrated his cover, but it was still hard to accept that he’d been locked out of the covert game forever.

The President watched him carefully. “How would you like a posting as a chief of station?”

Erin’s heart sank. She knew this was a big step for Alex — one he richly deserved. But it also meant he would soon be stationed at another embassy far away from her and far too busy for close contact. Slowly, inexorably, they would drift apart over time — each consumed by his or her own work. She turned away, unwilling to influence his decision by letting him see her sadness. She didn’t really have a claim on him — not yet.

Then the President went on with just the faintest suggestion of a twinkle in his eyes. “I understand you’re a skilled linguist, Mr. Banich. That you’re fluent in Russian, Ukrainian, and several other languages?”

“Yes, sir.”

The President nodded. “Thought so. That’s why I think it’s high time you polished up your English skills.” He grinned. “Walt Quinn and I want you to take over the London Station at the end of this month. I hope you’ll accept.”

Banich grinned back. “You can count on it, Mr. President!”

Erin turned toward him, her own eyes sparkling. London was one of the CIA’s most important and prestigious posts. Better yet, it meant that they would be together, after all.

Jack Ward sighed and looked around his new office. Although his retirement was still three months away, he’d decided to rent an office as soon as he was transferred to shore duty. It had just enough paneling and thick-enough carpets to be comfortable without appearing ostentatious. Compared to the steel bulkheads of a navy warship, it was luxurious.

He sat behind the desk, studying the still-empty walls and empty in-basket. There wasn’t much to do yet, but he enjoyed the idleness. After running the biggest U.S. naval force since World War II and seeing too many men and ships die, he could appreciate a little boredom.

Many of his friends were still surprised that he’d decided to retire. If he’d stayed in the navy, he would have been a shoo-in for the next chief of naval staff, the highest-ranking job in the fleet. But the CNS slot was a thankless task, an administrator’s job with no command function at all.

Ward knew he was an “operator,” and being a wartime fleet commander was as high as he could ever want to rise. It was time to get out while he was still ahead.

There was still a lot to do. There were the obligatory memoirs. Writing those would take a year or two. There was that cabin on the Carolina shore that he’d promised Elizabeth and himself. Navy men spent far too much time away from their families, and now he was going to take some of that time back.

The phone rang, startling him a little. Just installed, few people had the number. Probably his wife.

It rang a second time. Ward picked it up, expecting to hear Elizabeth’s voice.

“Admiral, it’s Ross Huntington. Your wife said I could reach you here.”

“That’s right,” Ward answered, surprised. The admiral was still only vaguely aware of Huntington’s role during the war, except that he was very close to the President. Since the war, though, the papers had been full of stories about the London Conference and its organizer. He was delighted to hear from Huntington, and a little flattered. His friend’s voice was strong and full of energy, which also pleased Ward.

They chatted for a while, exchanging news about their families and postwar celebrations. After a few minutes of small talk, Ward congratulated Huntington on his appointment and asked how preparations were going. It was the opening the other man had been waiting for.

“It’s going well, Jack. We’re getting a lot of support from all over Europe. The French and Germans are jumping at the chance to attend. They need all the goodwill they can get. I’ve got one problem, though.”

“What’s that?” asked Ward.

“I’ve got a hole on my team, Jack. I don’t have a military advisor. Defense plays a big role in all of Europe’s economies, and if I don’t have someone who can handle that part of the equation, I’m bound for disaster. Will you take it on?”

Even as Huntington continued, thoughts whirled to the front of Ward’s mind. Dealing with dozens of European countries.

“I’d need you for at least a year.”

Trying to build up an accurate military picture of postwar Europe.

“I can’t lie to you. The workload would be awful.”

Defining a new pattern of security relationships for the postwar world.

“I’ll do it,” Ward said. Idleness be damned. His memoirs could wait. He wanted to add a few more chapters.

Glumly, Major Tadeusz Wojcik reviewed his plans for the next series of tactics lectures. It was his unenviable task to make sure they folded smoothly and logically into the regiment’s existing training plan.

He’d been transferred to the training command after the war. It was a rest, they said. He should relax, they said. You need the administrative experience, they said.

Tad missed flying. He maintained proficiency with once-a-week hops, but milk runs weren’t the same as flying with an operational squadron. Sometimes, sitting there at his desk, he could almost hear his arteries hardening.

He heard a rapping and looked up to see one of his staff knocking on the open door. “Major, there’s someone here to see you.” The corporal’s stunned expression did not match his prosaic words. The noncom looked so surprised, in fact, that Tad wondered if the air force’s inspector general had dropped by to rake him over the coals for misfiling some bureaucratic form or another.

The corporal stepped aside, replaced by a man in ill-fitting civilian clothes. He spoke in accented English, which threw Tad off for a moment. He didn’t speak English that much anymore.

The stranger reached forward and enthusiastically pumped Tad’s hand as he rose behind the desk. “Major Wojcik. I am very glad to meet you.” He paused for a moment and smiled. “I am sorry. I am glad to see you again.”

The smile got bigger.

Tad was at a complete loss. The stranger had longish black hair and blue eyes. He was reasonably fit, and seemed just a little younger than Tad himself. They’d met before? When? Where? Who was this guy?

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid…”

The grin widened some more. “Of course.” The man suddenly snapped to attention. “I am Leutnant Dieter Kurtz of the Deutsche Luftwaffe, with Jagdgeschwader Three.”

A German? Tad’s face mirrored his puzzlement. But he’d never met…

Kurtz continued. “I was in a MiG-29 on June 8, near the German-Polish border.”

Recognition dawned on Wojcik’s face. “You tangled with two F-15s. I was in one of them.”

The German nodded. “And you shot me down.”

An image of the dogfight flashed through Tad’s memory. A night intercept that had resulted in a classic two-versus-two engagement, with the maneuvers as clean and well executed as a game between chess champions.

It had not ended quickly, though. Move had followed countermove until Tad had finally taken a chance snapshot with his cannon and scored on the German. It had been his sixth kill and it had firmly cemented his reputation as an ace with the regiment.

Tad remembered the MiG, sparkling in the darkness as his cannon shells struck, then spiraling down into the night, one wing gone and on fire.

At the time, he hadn’t even thought about the other pilot, hadn’t felt anything except a grim joy at the victory. He compared that feeling with the affable stranger standing before him.

Remembering himself, he offered Kurtz a chair, and then sat down himself. “You ejected?” Tad asked.

“Ja, and my back was badly twisted.” The German motioned to show his posture as the ejection seat fired, but winced and quickly straightened himself out.

Wojcik nodded knowingly. Back injuries were almost certain if a pilot’s spine wasn’t perfectly straight when he ejected. It was a common problem, but compared to being a thin red smear on the landscape…

“Unfortunately I landed in Poland. Where your soldiers found me and took me to hospital. Where they put me in a damned big cast. As much to keep me away from the beautiful Polish nurses as to help me, I think.” Kurtz smiled, swinging his arms to show his freedom. “Now that the war is over, they have released me. And I am on my way home.” He paused. “But in the hospital I asked who had shot me down. Natural curiosity, I think.” The German grinned again. “Imagine my surprise when they were actually able to find out. But I was not so surprised to hear that I was downed by an ace — a hot pilot.”

Tad remembered the fierce engagement. “You were pretty good yourself,” he countered.

The German leaned forward. “When you fired your cannon, it was a lucky shot?”

Tad nodded emphatically. “Yes. On your last turn, you slid further down than I expected, and I was pulling up…” His hands automatically came up to show the relative positions of the two fighters, elbows cocked as they moved.

Kurtz interrupted. “I was trying to force you to overshoot. My speed brakes were open and I had cut my throttles.”

“I did overshoot,” Tad agreed. “But only after my snapshot.”

He looked at the work on his desk, then at his watch. It was only two o’clock, but he wanted to know more, about that dogfight and this German pilot, so like himself. He stood up abruptly and picked up his uniform cap. “Come on, let’s get out of here and go over to the O Club. I’m buying.”

The two pilots left, hands already raised as they walked, Eagle and MiG maneuvering once more.

His suit had been carefully chosen to give him the “banker” look. Solid, respectable, not a man to take risks. The only splash of color was a fashionable tie, but Willi von Seelow had needed help with that. Like most soldiers, his civilian clothes were usually badly out of style, because they rarely wore out.

Now Willi, along with his rapidly growing assemblage of aides, supporters, and staffers, stood watching the large-screen television set up along one of the hotel ballroom’s walls.

Their “victory party” had started early, right after the polls closed. Food, beer, and music helped make the interminable waiting more bearable. Although Willi was confident, he believed the outcome was far from certain. His supporters, whose futures depended on his rising star, were of course sure of his victory.

And in the end, they were right. A newsreader, with grave formality, announced, “In the election returns from Berlin, our projections now show that Wilhem von Seelow of the New Democratic Party has defeated his opponent, Ernst Kettering of the Social Democrats, with fifty-five percent of the vote.”

The ballroom erupted in cheers, and in midsong the band suddenly switched to a stirring march. As probable as victory had been, the new party, formed in the weeks since Schraeder’s resignation, was only now meeting its first test, special postwar elections called to form a new, untainted government.

As suddenly as the cheers erupted, everyone hushed. A videotape of von Seelow speaking at an earlier political rally had flashed on the screen.

In it, Willi stood behind a podium, against a map of the Berlin district he was running to represent. The video clip cut in near the end of his speech. “Let there be no doubt. Germany will be a great power in Europe — and in the world. But that power must be used more wisely than in the past. I left the army, not because I was ashamed of my service, but because the army only serves those elected to office. And those who have never seen battle with their own eyes or heard the wounded crying for help with their own ears are often far more ready for war than the soldiers they would send. Germany’s brave men and brave women must never again be asked to shed their blood for a shameful cause — for aggression against our neighbors. Never again!”

Standing in the spotlights, his aristocratic bearing perfectly captured by the camera, Willi epitomized the good sense and decency the German people now knew had been lacking in Schraeder’s mob. Combined with a political platform that emphasized open markets, lower taxes, and a firm commitment to the new, brighter future being hammered out in London, his election had been more certain than he would have ever admitted.

Some of his supporters had wanted him to become party chairman. In their view the New Democrats needed a national spokesman and Willi was the perfect choice. He had turned that down, though. He had no political experience, and he wanted to act — not just to give speeches.

No, for now, the Bundestag was the place for him, although people were already speculating about what might come next. A few terms in the legislature for seasoning, then perhaps a cabinet post. After that, who could say?

Captain Mike Reynolds watched Alpha Company’s soldiers file into the belly of a C-141 Starlifter transport plane. He was sorry to leave Poland, but most of his men couldn’t have been happier. The hard work involved in rebuilding a nation ravaged by war had made them restless and eager to get home.

Reynolds was sure he would have felt the same, if he’d had a family waiting, too, but there was precious little in West Texas or Fort Campbell for him. Poland was far more interesting.

Nevertheless, the army said it was time to go. The speeches and ceremonies were over. The 3/187th’s battalion colors bore a new battle honor. Those who had fallen in combat were at rest — buried in a new cemetery outside Swiecie. And those who had lived had been decorated, feted by town after town on their march north, and generally given a hero’s farewell.

Reynolds straightened up, feeling the box containing the Silver Star he’d been awarded shift inside one of his pockets. He was proud of what that medal represented — proud of what he and his men had accomplished. Right now, though, he felt mostly sorrow for the men he couldn’t bring back with him, for the Poles who had died beside them, and, oddly enough, even for the French and Germans.

The line of soldiers shuffled ahead. Now it was his turn. The last Alpha Company soldier to leave Polish soil, he stepped onto the C-141’s ramp. Even this late in September, the dim interior of the plane was stifling in the afternoon heat, but that would change as soon as they were airborne.

Tomorrow they would be back at Fort Campbell, and in his mind Mike Reynolds was already starting to organize his thoughts around a peacetime schedule. The war was over. Now it was time to immerse himself again in the army routine — in training and more training, and, through it all, the continuous struggle to stay ready.

Until the next time.