Dead Hand

Chapter 10

Operational plans, once initiated, have the habit of taking on a life of their own, going forward like a spirited charger carrying its rider into the heart of battle. In part, this is due to the warrior ethic. Since the days when men fought in dense phalanxes on the level plains of ancient Greece, the only honorable course of action once the advance was sounded was to press on until victory was achieved or the combatant was struck down. This philosophy was supported by the myth that a death in battle was a noble thing. To halt before locking shields with one's foe was a sign of weakness that could not be tolerated. To turn and run displayed abject cowardice, which could only be scorned.

As with most things, there is more to this than simple pride. In the days of Homer, turning one's back on an enemy was tantamount to suicide. Most casualties in battle were suffered when one side sensed that things were not going their way and opted to flee rather than continue the fight. In order to make good his escape, the fleeing warrior had to drop the heavy shield he carried, as well as the cumbersome pike that measured anywhere from twelve to sixteen feel long. This left him quite vulnerable to his pursuer.

The potential victor, on the other hand, was presented with a wonderful target, the backside of his enemy. Already fired up with the passions that close combat evokes, it was all but impossible to restrain those in the ranks of the triumphant phalanx. With a bloodlust in their hearts, the winners would rush forth, en masse, to slaughter all before them who were not quick enough to make good their escape. It was because of this practice that Spartan mothers sent their sons off to war with the admonishment. "Return with your shield, or upon it." Since only the victor retained his shield. Mom was basically telling junior, "Don't you dare run away."

Warfare in the early twenty-first century bears no resemblance to that waged when Greece was the center of the civilized world. But the core philosophy that drives the men and women charged with defending the Western democracies has changed little from the citizen warrior who marched off to battle wearing a bronze cuirass and carrying a great round shield. A tread of continuity runs through the ages, tying the modern Green Beret to those proud Spartans. The Romans adopted the Greek philosophy of "victory or death," spreading it to the four corners of Europe during five hundred years of conquest. As the western Roman Empire faded from memory, the feudal knights who filled the void left by the disappearance of its legions continued the tradition, creating what came to be known as the "chivalric code." When the warlords of the Dark Ages became the great captains of the age of gunpowder, they discarded the armor of their ancestors but not their ethics and traditions. And when nation states rose to prominence and harnessed the energies of their professional soldiers, the code that those officers lived by was based on one that would have been understood by every citizen soldier of Hellenistic Athens.

The stubbornness with which modern warriors cling to such traditions is more than mere sentimentality or slavish dedication to an outdated code of conduct. Unlike most occupations, soldiers are expected to place themselves in harm's way. Neither pay nor benefits alone can induce a sane man or woman to engage in an activity in which death and destruction are anticipated. While every soldier prefers that the death and destruction resulting from the combat in which he engages is visited upon his foe and not himself, the likelihood that he will fall victim to the law of averages cannot be ignored.

Commanders throughout the ages have understood this. Every society that has had to engage in warfare, and history tends to point out that this pretty much includes all of them, has employed those methods that were both socially acceptable and effective in inducing their citizens to fight. Cave dwellers are believed to have created clans and rituals that challenged and tested the young men of their tribes before the aspiring youths were permitted to assume the rights, privileges, and duties of an adult male.' Ancient Greeks and republican Romans tied the benefits of citizenship to the duty of bearing arms in the defense of the state. Land and privileges were bestowed upon feudal knights in return for military service to more powerful lords and kings. Frederick the Great implemented a system of discipline and punishment that he hoped would make his soldiers fear him and his appointed officers more than they feared the enemy they faced. And the colonial rabble of 1775 stood their ground against the best army in the world because they were fired up by the radicals of their day to believe in the righteousness of their cause.

In an era when there are no overwhelming threats or external dangers, when prosperity is the norm, and the profession of arms is viewed by the intellectual elite of the nation as a necessary evil to be tolerated but not encouraged, it is difficult to motivate young men and women to become soldiers. The best and the brightest who have an opportunity to attend college do so in order to become captains of industry, not infantry captains. Those entering the workforce straight out of high school, seeking freedom from the educational system and their parents, are not drawn to a profession that requires its members to submit to discipline, endure sacrifice, and adhere to a strict code of conduct. So it is surprising that the armed forces of the United States, as well as those of other Western democracies, actually find anyone to fill the ranks of their armies, man their ships, and maintain and care for their warplanes.

Filling the ranks is only the first hurdle that a modem peacetime army must overcome. Motivating those recruits to actually do what they are being paid to do in combat is something entirely different. To achieve this goal, every opportunity to instill the warrior ethic in the recruit is taken. At Fort Benning, Georgia, this conditioning takes the form of what is called "The Spirit of the Bayonet," which is not only the will to go toe-to-toe with the enemy and engage him in close combat, but the desire to do so. At the armor school at Fort Knox, Kentucky, the "Spirit of the Cav" lives on, imploring young soldiers and leaders of the mounted combat arm to close with and destroy their enemies by the use of fire, maneuver, and shock effect. While there are always a number of prospective soldiers who take to these philosophies with ease, others must work hard at overcoming years of social conditioning that tend to denigrate the traditional concepts of manhood. Some young men find they never can.

Those who do, enter into what the writer W. E. B. Griffith calls "The Brotherhood of War." It is an exclusive clique, one populated by people who take pride in themselves, their chosen profession, and their ability to accomplish their assigned missions no matter how difficult the task or adverse the conditions. Given an order, the modern soldier is expected to do as his ancestors had done generation after generation. The helmet and body armor may be different, but the attitude that motivates the modern warrior has changed little. Like his predecessors, he is trained to salute and press on, no matter the cost, until victory has been achieved.

In a democracy, the warrior is subordinate to politicians, who are guided by different ideals, who adhere to a set of standards that is often at odds with those of the professional soldier. Whereas an officer in the armed forces conducts most of his day-to-day business by issuing orders, democratic leaders achieve their goals through consensus. The popularity of the political figure, or of the program he or she is promoting, is critical. Politicians are skilled in making deals, mustering support from allies, and undercutting their opponents through the use of slander, half-truths, and spin. While they desire to win just as much as the soldier does, a political failure does not carry the same stigma that a military defeat does. The proof of this is borne out in the manner in which the media covers modern politics, turning it into a spectator's sport rather than the serious business of national security. None of this means that the politician is a lesser being, just as the pursuit of a military career does not mean that the professional soldier is a baby-killer. Each public servant, the politician and the soldier, operates in an environment that dictates adherence to certain rules and norms that must be followed if they expect to reach their respective goals.

Under the Constitution of the United States, the American military is subordinate to the popularly elected officials. It has always been this way in the United States and, with luck, always will be. Over two hundred years of operating under this system, however, does not mean that there are not problems. As would be expected when two diverse cultures come together to achieve a common goal, there are misunderstandings that lead to an occasional clash. Professional soldiers, who are appointed to their current rank and position solely on the basis of their previous success and achievements, oftentimes have difficulties in working out solutions with politicians, who know they must maintain their popularity if they hope to be reelected or receive favorable treatment by future historians. The blunt, direct language associated with a "victory or death" mentality tends to unnerve or anger men and women who twist the English language to soften the impact of unpopular measures or to hide the truth.

Another notable difference between these two groups of public servants is the manner in which they make decisions. The warrior, who embraces the philosophy of "victory or death," tends to view the world in terms of black and white. You succeed or you fail. It is that simple. Professional soldiers are comfortable with the idea that once spurred into action, they are expected to continue on, come what may. As one 7th cavalry officer once exclaimed as he rode off to his demise, "It'll be a bullet or a brevet for me."

Politicians, on the other hand, endeavor to conduct their affairs in a manner that permits them to keep their options open, allowing them to dodge that bullet at the last moment if things don't appear that they will work out as expected. Most elected officials and their representatives see no shame in reining in their charger or shying away from a head-on collision with a foe. It is, in fact, often touted as a virtue, demonstrating that the politician is a realist, willing to listen to reason and compromise. These differences do not make one superior to the other. It's simply the nature of the world to which each lives. During times of crisis, politicians can demonstrate the same dogged determination and courage of their convictions as a warrior does, just as the many senior generals who make up the Joint Chiefs of Staff often behave in a manner more befitting a politician.

History has recorded some very notable clashes between these two diverse positions. Douglas MacArthur lost his job when his solution to Chinese intervention in the Korean War went against the policies of Harry S. Truman. While John F. Kennedy listened to his military advisers during the Cuban missile crisis in 1963 and permitted them to prepare for a full-scale invasion of Cuba, in the end, he opted to use the military in a less confrontational manner. The conduct of the entire Vietnam War, from beginning to end, is rife with examples of the military seeking one solution while the President's advisers argued for another. When nothing stood between Stormin' Norman and the administration of a coup de grace that would have meant the end of Saddam Hussein, his Commander in Chief did what the Iraq Republican Guard could not.

As the hour to execute Tempest drew near, the President's National Security Agency was called together. When General Eric Shepard and the other senior members of the joint Chiefs of Staff entered the cabinet room, they were under the assumption that everything that had needed to be discussed had been. The only reason they thought they had been brought together was to provide the President's top advisers with a final update on the situation in Russia and to receive the official order to execute.

It therefore came as something of a shock when one of the National Security advisers opened the meeting by stating that the President was having second thoughts about Tempest. "In an effort to avoid the sort of criticism that they endured in the wake of the Kursk incident, the Russians have been quick to solicit assistance from Western nations, including NATO. When briefed on Tempest, the State Department was quick to point out that by the use of these disaster-relief flights to ferry ground troops into Russia, we will not only violate Russian territorial integrity and betray the trust and confidence of the Russian government, but could set in motion a chain of events that may well lead to the collapse of that government. The President has therefore instructed me to come back to you in order to determine if there is a less intrusive option, such as that previously proposed by the Air Force."

Before he could continue, General Smith slapped the polished tablet op with the flat of his hand. "What?"

Annoyed that he had been interrupted, the National Security adviser peered over his reading glasses and stared at Smith. "You heard me, General. The President is concerned that exercising the Tempest option could have serious repercussions, not the least of which are the casualties that would be associated with that operation."

"Begging your pardon, sir," Smith countered, "but not going through with this will, I daresay, result in serious repercussions."

While others sat back and watched in stony silence, Smith and the President's chief adviser began to shout at each other. "Even your own intelligence assessment states that the United States may not be targeted by the missiles under Likhatchev's control. His disagreement. after all, is with Moscow, not with us."

"Mister Chaplin," Smith shot back, "we've been through this time and time again. A dispute in Russia, whether it is a limited affair or a full-blown civil war that results in the use of nuclear weapons, cannot be contained. In every war game and simulation we've run, eventually things get out of hand and the United States or one of its allies becomes a target."

"Those, General," Chaplin countered with uncharacteristic sharpness, "were just that, war game and simulation. This operation, the troops that will be executing it, and the damage they will create, are real. The President is not sure if he's ready to initiate a chain of events that may spin out of our control."

With each exchange, Shepard watched as Smith's face grew redder. Realizing that things would soon reach a point where he would be unable to restrain his outspoken subordinate, the Chairman intervened. "Mister Chaplin," Shepard stated crisply, "I am afraid we have reached a point where we no longer have the luxury of revisiting this issue. For one thing, once Tempest was adopted as the only practical course of action, all of our resources were funneled into supporting it. The Air Force has marshaled the aircraft necessary for an air strike, and the Navy has moved its carrier task force away from Russia. In short, sir, the only viable options we have left are to either proceed with Tempest or to do nothing."

Being careful to choose his words, the National Security adviser pursued Shepard's comments. "In a worst-case scenario, what is the cost of doing nothing?"

Shepard fought the temptation to roll his eyes. This had been gone over daily since the crisis had broken. Still, he could not resist the urge to snipe at the political appointee sitting across from him. "Worst case?" he asked rhetorically. "Worst case, the President loses five million constituents within the first twenty-four hours." The silence permeating the room as Shepard spoke was oppressive. "Within seven days, that number would triple as the wounded who are beyond help or unable to reach medical assistance died. After ten years, the number would double as a result of increased rates of cancer and birth defects."

Having been responsible for generating the numbers that the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs was laying out, the Chief of Staff of the Air Force added his thoughts. "The people, our fellow Americans, who die within the first few seconds of that holocaust would be the lucky ones, Mister Chaplin. Those who survive are the ones I pity."

Though the tone of the Air Force general's comments angered the National Security adviser, he held his tongue. When he saw that the senior officer in the Air Force did not seize the opportunity to revisit the plan that he had fought for so vehemently on previous occasions, the President's adviser realized that their options were limited to one. "Well, gentlemen, I appreciate your candor," Chaplin mumbled as he struggled to find a graceful way to extract himself from this discussion. "I will advise the Commander in Chief of your opinions and endeavor to get a decision from him soon."

Relieved that Tempest was not going to be scuttled at the last minute, Smith leaned back in his seat. As he ran his fingers along the edge of the table and stared at them, the Chief of Staff of the Army sighed. "When you do see the President, Mister Chaplin, please advise him that he doesn't have much time in which to make up his mind."

This comment caught everyone, including Smith's superior, off guard. "Well, how much time do we have?" the National Security adviser asked.

Slowly, Smith raised his arm and looked at his watch. "Exactly four hours and thirty-seven minutes, sir."

Having gone over the plan in detail, Shepard turned to face Smith. "What's so significant about that?"

Looking around the table at the President's key advisers, Smith shrugged. "Well, ladies and gentlemen, that is when the Tempest teams begin to exit over their targets."

"Wait a minute," the Air Force chief blurted. "It'll take longer than four and a half hours to reach their targets from Scotland."

Unable to resist, Smith sported the smile of a little boy who has just pulled off the perfect prank. "Yes, that's true, provided the aircraft are still in Scotland."

Shaken for the second time that evening, Shepard all but leaped out of his seat. "You mean you've launched Tempest?"

Facing his old friend, Smith nodded. "In your heart, Eric, you knew this would happen. You knew someone would get cold feet at the last minute. So I took the initiative."

Shocked by this revelation, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs said nothing. Turning toward the National Security adviser, Smith glared at the equally dumbfounded man. "While we can always recall them, Mister Chaplin, I recommend that we don't. The time to act is now. The situation on the ground in Siberia is extremely chaotic. Both Likhatchev and Moscow are permitting international relief agencies in, a factor critical to us since this will allow us to slip the military transports in with the Tempest teams without raising undue suspicion or concern." Smith paused, looking around at the other members of the Joint Chiefs. "There is not a person here, Mister Chaplin, who can guarantee that this window of opportunity will remain open. If I were Likhatchev, as soon as I had the ability to exercise my authority over the region, I'd start making trouble. While I regret having taken this matter into my own hands, I believe we cannot wait for this to happen. The sooner we de-fang the bastard, the sooner we will be able to settle down to the serious business of rendering aid and assistance to the victims of the asteroid strike, as well as propping up the government in Moscow."

From the back of the room, where the straphangers stood huddled about watching the tumultuous proceedings, a voice broke the ensuing silence. "Thy will be done."

Looking down at his notebook, Eric Shepard finished that thought by adding, "Amen."

With that, the meeting broke up as the participants scattered to the various places from where they would sit out the next few hours and watch, listen, wait, and pray.