Vortex

CHAPTER 24 Commitment

NOVEMBER 14-THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

The once steaming-hot cup of coffee sitting on the President’s desk had long since grown stone cold. Now it sat off to one side, pushed aside and abandoned after a particularly abrupt hand gesture threatened to spill its contents across an important stack of telexes, reports, and maps.

“Indeed, Prime Minister, you’re absolutely right. The situation is quite intolerable.”

Vice President James Forrester slid his own empty cup onto the low side table by his chair and leaned forward. The President’s sudden formality was a sign that the hour-long, early-mo ming conversation with Britain’s prime minister was drawing to a close. Until now, everything had been on a strictly first-name basis.

“Exactly. My people will be meeting within the hour,” The President arched an eyebrow at Forrester, looking for confirmation.

He nodded back. Most of the NSC’s key players had al506

ready been at their posts for more than twenty-four hour sever since the first unsettling reports of the new Cuban offensive started pouring into official Washington. And a Marine Corps helicopter was already parked out on the White House lawn, on standby to fly him across the Potomac to the

Pentagon.

“Yes, Prime Minister, I’ll call you the moment I have more detailed information from this end. Yes. And thank you, too. ” The President put the phone down, his expression grim.

Forrester couldn’t control his curiosity.

“Well?”

The President looked up.

“It’s a go, Jimmy. The British are in.” He seemed older somehow.

“I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all. But I just don’t see that we have any other real choice. “

Forrester felt his pulse accelerating. He rose from his chair.

“In that case, Mr. President, I’ll be on my way. Hurley has his group waiting for me.”

He glanced behind him as he left the Oval Office. The President sat still behind his desk-staring sadly at nothing in particular. Not for the first time, Forrester realized that it was a hell of a lot easier to follow orders than it was to give them.

EMERGENCY CONFERENCE ROOM, THE PENTAGON

At the President’s direction, the NSC’s Southern Africa Crisis Group had shifted its day-to-day operations over to the Pentagon. The basement

Emergency Conference Room there was larger, had better communications facilities, and allowed faster access to the latest intelligence data from the region.

Almost as important, the Pentagon had more parking and entrances and exits than the White House. And that, in turn, made it easier to hold a serious meeting without creating a three-ring media circus. The print and

TV reporters who prowled through the White House looking for fast-breaking news had limousine-counting down to a science.

Besides, the Conference Room looked a lot more like a

hightech command center than did the rather dingy White House Situation

Room. A bank of six-foot-high computer display screens, most of them blank at the moment, lined one whole wall, three across and two rows high. The length of a T-shaped table accommodated Crisis Group staffers and aides, while members of the Crisis Group sat across one end. A microphone stood in front of every seat at the table. Podiums, with as much audiovisual equipment as a small high school, allowed the entire group to be briefed on developments.

Doors led to the basement hallway outside, an adjacent communications center, a pair of small apartments with beds and washrooms, and a carefully guarded cubicle crowded with terminals linked directly to the mainframe computers at every major U.S. intelligence agency.

The Conference Room was supposed to be filled with organized chaos.

Instead, it was just chaos. Cuba’s attack into South Africa had caught the

Crisis Group in mid move turning what was supposed to be a smooth transition into a frantic scramble.

Officers and enlisted personnel from all four military services came and went in a steady stream, mixing with little knots of harried-looking civilian aides. Technicians clustered on one side of the room, trying to get the right images displayed on the room’s wall-mounted computer screens.

Maps for southern Africa were on file, but they hadn’t yet been converted to the Pentagon’s new computer format.

More enlisted men staggered in, carrying scaled boxes of highly sensitive intelligence reports. An extremely tense Air Force captain stood in the doorway to the tiny intel cubicle, checking off each report’s title and serial number. Under normal circumstances, he would have counted every page of every report to make sure that none were missing-but circumstances were clearly not normal.

A low whistle broke across all the activity. The assorted technicians, officers, and enlisted men scattered through the chamber turned to see a short, bowlegged Army sergeant major waving them out.

“Meeting’s on, gents.

Secure the room.

In the sudden exodus, pen flashlights, tech manuals, tools, and reams of paper were all left lying in place. They’d be needed again once the politicos and higher brass were done jawing at each other.

Flanked by his military aide and civilian chief of staff, Forrester entered at a fast walk-his hair still windblown after a wild, rain-drenched helicopter landing outside the Pentagon. Shrugging off his wet overcoat, he moved to the spot marked for him at the conference table. He nodded once to red-eyed Edward Hurley, plainly weary after a long, sleepless night spent monitoring developments, and took his seat.

All conversation around the T-shaped table died away.

Forrester glanced to either side, unsurprised to see that the Crisis

Group’s membership had expanded overnight to include the Joint Chiefs, the CIA director, the secretaries of defense, treasury, and commerce, and a small army of high ranking assistants. So much for the original idea of a small, manageable group. Washington’s political and military leaders were drawn to international crises like moths to a flame.

He rapped once on the table.

“I’ll make this short and sweet. I met with the President this morning.”

Everyone at the table opened notebooks and grabbed pens. Guidance from the Man would make their task a lot clearer. Not easier-jUSt. clearer.

Forrester paused briefly before plowing straight ahead.

“The President has decided to authorize direct American intervention in southern Africa.

Direct military intervention. “

He raised his voice, overriding the surprised murmuring coming from around the table.

“We have three objectives: One, bouncing Vorster and his goons out of power. Two, preventing Cuba from gaining control over

South Africa’s strategic minerals. Third, and most important, securing world access to those resources by restoring some kind of civil order over there.” He glanced at the wall clock showing local time It was already ten forty-five A.M.

“The President’s scheduled a full cabinet meeting for seven o’clock tonight. He wants our recommendations and preliminary plans by then.”

:,

“Good God. Christopher Nicholson broke the stunned

silence. The CIA director had been fiddling uneasily with the cap of one of his pens, pulling it off and pushing it back on.

“Mr. Vice President, we are still gathering information on the invasion, on Cuban intentions and capabilities. We don’t know how many troops are involved, we don’t know where they are located. We can’t possibly act without a better idea-“

“I’m sorry, Chris, but we can’t wait for you to produce some glossy intelligence product.” Forrester’s tone combined urgency and impatience.

“We just don’t have time to dot every i and cross every t. Hell, you’ve all seen the financial news this morning.”

Most of the men and women around the table nodded grimly. The world financial markets were in an uproar. Prices for South African-produced minerals were skyrocketing. Gold alone was trading at more than a thousand dollars an ounce. The New York, Tokyo, London, and other stock markets were all in sustained free-fall. Several governments had shut down their exchanges in a frantic effort to slow the collapse.

Commentators and self-proclaimed economic experts were openly predicting a new world recession. Others were using the word depression.

Forrester looked down the row of stunned faces.

“We simply don’t have any choice, folks. The President wants a solid plan he can present to the nation by this time tomorrow morning. Not a ‘spin’ and not a ‘slant.”

“

He nodded toward the one lit display screen-a map showing the known war zones in Namibia and South Africa.

“The world’s too small a place for this kind of crap.”

More nods. This wasn’t America’s first reminder that the nominal end of the Cold War hadn’t automatically ushered in a millennial age of peace and prosperity.

Forrester turned toward the Air Force general sitting to his left.

“Walt, the President has one key question he needs answered right away. Can the

Cubans win if we don’t intervene?”

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

The civilians around the table were openly surprised by Hickman’s blunt answer. Senior military officials, like their civilian counterparts, tended to be more comfortable with carefully hedged assessments.

Nicholson spoke up first.

“How can you be so sure, General? My analysts estimate that the total Cuban attack force is still smaller than the whole South African army. They’re outnumbered by at least two to one. How can Castro hope to beat those kind of odds?”

Hickman shook his head impatiently.

“The overall numbers don’t matter worth a damn, Director. What counts is combat power on the front line.

And right now the front lines are in South Africa itself-not Namibia.

Cuba’s probably got a ten-to-one force ratio there.”

He left the conference table and moved to the display screen.

“Look here.

Half of Vorster’s reliable troops are dangling out here in Namibia-more than a thousand miles away from the real action. Most of the rest are scattered around in penny packets, chasing down black guerrillas and rebel commandos.” He faced Forrester directly.

“So the question is, can

Pretoria shift its heavy armor and infantry units out of Namibia fast enough?”

Hickman shook his head again, answering his own question.

“I doubt it.”

He traced a sparse network of red and black lines shown on the flickering display map.

“South Africa’s road and rail net is just too limited. Plus,

Cuban MiGs have achieved almost total air superiority. They can pound the hell out of troop trains or truck convoys moving by day.”

1, SoT I

“So South Africa’s troops are going to arrive piecemeal -if at all.

They’ll slow the Cubans down some, maybe even a lot, but they’re not going to stop them. Not short of Pretoria anyway. And they’ll be cut to pieces in the process.”

Hickman stalked back to his seat in the silence that followed.

Nicholson cleared his throat.

“I still believe we should offer the

President some alternative to an ill-conceived and unilateral commitment of U.S. forces.”

Forrester stopped him there.

“Hold on, Chris. The British have agreed to send troops as well.”

“Are their troops going to stop every bullet the South Africans or Cubans fire, Mr. Vice President?” Nicholson shot back.

“We’re talking about going to war against a country that has more than a hundred thousand men under arms -a country that’s already at war with Cuba and itself. This isn’t going to be a walk in the park. We’re talking about a casualty list that could run into the thousands.”

Forrester’s eyes narrowed at the unsubtle dig, but he kept his temper under control. Beneath all his bluster, the CIA chief spoke for a sizable fraction of the cabinet, the Congress, and the American people. Nobody wanted to rush into another bloody, unwinnable quagmire like Vietnam.

“The alternative to military action is another Great Depression-tens of millions of people out of work, hunger, riots.

“Neither the President nor I claim to be infallible, Director. Do you see an option we’ve overlooked?”

“Yes. Why not press for action by the UN Security Council instead. Get a resolution calling on all parties to withdraw to”

For the first time, Edward Hurley spoke up.

“Won’t work, I’m afraid. The

Soviets would veto any such resolution like that!” He snapped his fingers for emphasis.

The secretary of commerce backed him up.

“That’s true. Moscow has too much power and prestige invested in a Cuban victory. They can’t afford to let the UN intervene.”

Again, the men and women seated around the long table nodded gravely.

A

Cuban victory meant de facto Cuban control over South Africa’s mineral wealth. That, in turn, meant the West would have to pay sharply higher prices for the strategic minerals it needed. For the first time in decades, Cuba wouldn’t need annual billion-dollar infusions of Soviet economic and military aid.

Even more important, from Moscow’s point of view, the prices paid for the

USSR’s own chromium, titanium, gold, and other mineral resources would climb dramatically-pouring badly needed hard currency into the State

Treasury. And if those higher prices produced a worldwide economic slump, so much the better. A depression in the industrial giants of the West would level the playing field. Power is relative not an absolute.

For the first time since the Cold War’s supposed end, the strategic interests of the Soviet Union were again opposed to those of the Western democracies.

Nicholson backed down and tried another angle.

“Then why not impose a blockade on Cuba? Cut off Castro’s ability to feed his troops and we end the war.”

“For the simple reason that they’re not being supplied from Cuba itself.

As you should know, Director.” For the first time that morning, Forrester showed his irritation openly.

“I assume you’re not proposing that we risk an even wider war by stopping Soviet merchant ships on the high seas?”

Wisely, Nicholson kept his mouth shut.

“In any event, even forcing a Cuban pullback would still leave us facing this nutcase Vorster.” Forrester grimaced.

“The President is absolutely convinced that we cannot guarantee the free flow of the minerals, and a stable international economy, without installing a democratic government of some sort in South Africa.”

He glared down the table toward the sullen, silent CIA chief.

“We’ve tried diplomatic pressures. They’ve failed. We’ve tried economic pressures. They’ve failed. And now we’re facing a situation that could wreck every economy from here to Tokyo. I’ll ask you this just one more time, Director Nicholson: What other option do we have?”

Silence.

“Right. None.” Forrester shifted his gaze toward the Joint Chiefs.

“Gentlemen, I think it’s time we started talking seriously about the use of military force. You’ve heard the President’s three objectives. Now I need to know what kinds of troops and hardware we’ll have to commit to achieve those objectives. His question created a stir among the Joint Chiefs as they talked among themselves for a moment or two.

Finally, General Hickman leaned forward.

“Mr. Vice President, one thing is very clear-the carrier battle group we’ve

got sitting off the South African coast can’t handle this on its own.”

Forrester nodded and motioned him on, knowing that Hickman and the other chiefs were talking the problem through out loud.

The Air Force general stared hard into space for several seconds and then glanced at his colleagues. Finally, he looked back at Forrester.

“Even sending another carrier battle group won’t do much good, sir. We’re going to need more than just air and sea power to impose our will on South

Africa. To do that, we’re going to need men on the ground-lots of them.

“

HEADQUARTERS, SECOND MARINE EXPEDITIONARY FORCE, CAMP LEJEUNE, NORTH

CAROLINA

Lt. Gen. Jerry Craig, USMC, squirmed in his chair as the briefer droned on and on. His intelligence officer, Col. George Slocomb, had pieced together a summary of the military situation in South Africa, but it wasn’t a straightforward military campaign. There were essentially three separate wars raging, all rapidly turning into one giant furball. Hard data on any of them was tough to come by.

Slocomb was trying to fill in the gaps by concentrating on South Africa’s confused political situation, but Craig was uncomfortable with that kind of stuff. He was a military professional-one ordinarily only too glad to leave politics to the “power tie” boys in Washington.

The general squirmed again, running his hand slowly through close-cropped red hair. It was impolite to go to sleep during a briefing you had ordered. Besides, South Africa was the hottest part of the world right now, and he had to know what was going on.

“General?” One of his aides leaned next to his ear.

“What?”

“Washington’s on the line, sir.”

Irritated at the interruption, Craig got up and walked over to a side table that held a phone. The lights came up and a low buzz of conversation started. His irritation faded, though, when he heard the voice on the other end.

“Jerry, this is Wcs Masters.” Craig knew Wesley Masters’s voice well. Two classes ahead of him at the Academy, Masters had served with him in several posts, fought with him near the DMZ in “Nam, and partied with him in some of the wildest ports in the world. Masters was also one of the few men in the Corps senior to him-the head honcho, in fact, commandant of the whole ever loving Marine Corps.

Craig automatically stiffened to attention.

“Yes, Commandant. What can I do for you?”

When his staff saw Craig’s response, all talking stopped as though it had been cut off by a switch, and every ear listened to Craig’s side of the conversation.

“Yes, sir, we’re as ready as ever. We’re prepping for Gold Eagle next month, but…

“Aye, aye, sir. I understand. ” Craig shook his head. Jumping Jesus. Had he heard that right?

“I’ll be there ASAP. I’ll radio my ETA to Andrews.

Goodbye, sir.”

Craig hung up the phone and turned to face his openly curious staff.

“Listen up, people. Drop everything in the plan of the day. Implement the recall bill and start preparations for embarkation.”

Jaws dropped all around the room. Well, he knew exactly how they felt.

He turned to his operations officer.

“Terry, call Cherry Point. I want a two-seat Hornet prepped with a pilot standing by in twenty minutes. I have to make a fast trip to Washington-real fast. And get my helicopter over here.”

Craig raised his voice slightly so that it would carry through the crowded room.

“When I get back, I want a meeting with every officer on the staff.

Everyone. Have a list of anything that might interfere with a fast embarkation.”

He smiled slightly, but there was a grimness to it.

“And it better be a very short list. “

CHERRY POINT MARINE CORPS AIR STATION, NORTH

CAROLINA

Craig barely noticed the helicopter ride to the Air Station. He spent the entire trip pretending to go over routine paperwork. Reading and signing trivial memos and authorizations helped him conceal an inner whirlpool of thoughts and emotions. Marines, generals especially, were not supposed to act like giddy schoolboys. And he’d been fighting to control his expression and his demeanor ever since the commandant’s phone call.

An order to embark was not given lightly, or routinely. It was only issued in a time of serious crisis, when the President’s list of options had shortened so much that using military force wasn’t just possible, it was probable.

It had to be South Africa. There were hot spots aplenty elsewhere, but the world’s only serious shooting war was going on down there. And

Masters had asked him to ready his entire expeditionary force! Not just a battalion or one of his two brigades. Whatever was up was big, and again that pointed to South Africa.

Combat in Africa. He shook his head. His Marine career had already included a lot of combat duty, always in godforsaken places nobody sane would ever want to live in, just fight over. But he’d never had the opportunity to command so many men in battle. At full strength, a Marine

Expeditionary Force could muster up to forty thousand sailors and

Marines, two hundred fighters and attack jets, four hundred -plus helicopters, and hundreds of tanks, light armored vehicles, and artillery pieces. In Craig’s admittedly biased view, it was the world’s most perfect combination of strategic mobility, firepower, and pure guts.

Just thinking about handling all that in the noise and confusion of battle was enough to make a man sweat bullets, Craig thought. You couldn’t just lead your boys forward in a head-on slashing attack. You had to know how to mass air, land, and sea power into a single, flexible whole. Still, he was ready for it-ready for anything. Or so he told himself.

During a long and distinguished Marine Corps career, he’d held a variety of staff assignments, not just troop commands. Every Marine officer, even the most gung ho, had to spend plenty of time commanding a desk. And his time at the Pentagon and at various duty stations around the world had shown him to be a good planner-a thinking soldier who never lost sight of the shortest, least costly route to the objective.

Despite what at times seemed an inordinate number of people shooting at him, Craig had stayed healthy and moved up the hierarchy, one slow rung at a time. Now he’d reached the penultimate step of his career-commander,

Fleet Marine Force Atlantic and commanding officer of the Second Marine

Expeditionary Force, one of only three such forces in the Marine Corps.

The general looked up as the helo came over Cherry Point Marine Corps Air

Station. He started packing up his paperwork. Once overhead, it took several more minutes to reach the flight line, a huge expanse of bare concrete bordered on one side by a row of boxy, metal-walled hangars. The runways themselves seemed like a study in perpetual motion. Of turboprop cargo planes taking off with supplies for carriers at sea. Of fighters practicing touch-and-gos in a howling roar of powerful engines. And over it all, the pervasive, biting tang of raw jet fuel.

His helo landed near a twin-tailed F/A-18 parked next to a grimy yellow starter cart. A long hose ran from the starter cart to the Hornet, blowing air into its jet engines to get their turbines spinning. A small group of men in camouflage uniforms came to attention as the engines stopped. They saluted Craig as he stepped out.

Leaving his briefcase for his aide, Craig returned their salutes and walked quickly over to the senior officer, a lieutenant colonel.

“Good afternoon, General. I’m Steve Walker, squadron commander.” He pointed to a lieutenant wearing flight gear.

“This is Tom Lyles, your chauffeur for this trip.”

Lyles was a short, stocky man with a broad, clean-featured face. Craig liked him immediately. Their eyes were on the same level.

He held out his hand.

“Lieutenant.”

An enlisted man ran up carrying a pile of flight gear, and they quickly fitted Craig with coveralls, g-vest, and a helmet. He noticed that there were several sets of equipment, all in different sizes, lined up on a nearby jeep.

As the sailor helped him lace up his g-vest, Craig asked, “How long a flight to Andrews?”

“About thirty minutes, sir. ” The young Navy flyer grinned at his surprised expression.

“We’ll be at Mach point nine five as soon as we get to altitude. “

Though he did his best to hide it, Craig was impressed. Just driving from

Andrews to the Pentagon around Washington’s traffic-choked Beltway would probably take twice that long. In his case, though, another helicopter would carry him to the Pentagon.

His aide ran up.

“Your gear’s stowed in the baggage pod, General. “

“Great.” Craig pulled the helmet onto his head.

“Signal my ETA to the commandant. And I’ll need another fast fide back after this meeting.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Ten minutes later, the Hornet roared off the runway, climbing fast on full throttle. At twenty thousand feet over the wooded Virginia countryside, Lyles leveled off. He kept his throttle shoved forward, though.

Most Navy pilots spend their lives computing flight profiles that give them the longest possible time aloft. Lyles evidently planned to make the most of a mission that let him fly almost as fast as he wanted to.

The Fighter roared on, boring a hole through the air at over six hundred knots. Craig’s mood soared along with the plane.

THE PENTAGON

Craig strode briskly up the wide set of steps to the Pentagon’s River

Entrance, greeted by a forest of salutes snapped his way by officers and enlisted men coming and going through the set of double doors.

A Marine major hurried forward.

“General Craig, sir. Right this way.

They’re waiting for you downstairs.”

Craig had expected to go straight to the commandant’s office in the Navy

Annex, but had found himself deep inside the Pentagon instead-midway along a poorly lit basement corridor he’d never seen before. His guide stopped in front of an anonymous metal door.

“In here, General.”

The man punched in a four-number security code on a keypad and pulled the door open.

Hat under his arm, Craig stepped through into a wood paneled conference room, complete with a long mahogany conference table and beautifully upholstered furniture. Even the room’s utilitarian fluorescent lights had been tastefully enclosed.

His first glimpse of the men waiting for him wiped away any lasting impression of the room. He’d been expecting to see Wcs Masters, of course. But he sure as hell hadn’t expected to see a group that included the rest of the Joint Chiefs, the secretary of defense, and the Vice

President. He stopped dead in the doorway.

“Come on in, Jerry. Take a pew. ” Masters stepped around the table, shook

Craig’s outstretched hand, and steered him toward an empty chair.

Oh, boy. Although some of the glitter had worn off those in high places as he advanced in rank, Craig still found himself a little awed in such company. Here he was, the commanding general of a Marine expeditionary force-the absolute lord and master of nearly forty thousand men-and he was still the junior man present in this small, secret room. He wasn’t used to that.

Also, just what kind of orders was he going to get? There was an old rule in the Corps that the higher a job started, the tougher it got.

Wordlessly, he nodded to the assembled group and sat down.

Masters took the seat next to him and nodded to an Air Force officer standing near the wall.

“All right, Colonel.”

A projection screen slid down from the ceiling, and the lights dimmed.

For twenty minutes, Craig sat through another briefing on South Africa.

Though shorter than his G-2’s version, the data was a little more timely and a little more complete. Nevertheless, Craig made a mental note to tell

Slocomb he’d been pretty close to the mark.

The lights came up, and General Masters looked at him.

“Jerry, we want you to take the Second MEF to South Africa. “

Bingo. His earlier guesses had been on the mark, too.

“Our people are still putting a plan together, but right now we anticipate an initial landing at Cape Town-followed by extensive operations inland and east along the South African coast. “

With two briefings under his belt, Craig understood exactly what this entailed. Cape Town was eighty-five hundred miles from the Marine amphibious base at Camp Lejeune-an incredible distance for an operation of that kind. Automatically, he glanced at the map still displayed on the screen.

Masters anticipated his question.

“We understand the distance problem,

Jerry. But we’ve got several factors working for. us. First, South Africa’s

Navy is practically nonexistent, so we don’t have to worry about an opposed transit.” The Marine Corps commandant nodded politely toward the admiral sitting across the table and said, “The Navy’s promised us a fast trip.

“Second, we think you’ll only need one brigade loaded for assault. Cape

Town’s well away from the path of the Cuban invasion, and our contacts among the rebels there tell us they’d welcome American intervention as a stabilizing influence. “

Swell. Craig hated the thought of relying on men he didn’t know-men who’d already betrayed one trust. He made another mental note to make sure his staff did their damnedest to combat-load more than one brigade.

“This is a major operation, Jer7y. To get the job done, we think we’re going to need your boys, the Seventh Light, the One oh One Air Assault, and the Twenty-fourth Mechanized. We’re gonna back you up with two or three carrier battle groups and a whole slew of Air Force tac air squadrons.”

Craig swallowed hard. They were talking about committing more than a quarter of a million men. Jesus Christ. He hadn’t even begun to imagine what “big” really meant. He tried a tentative joke.

“Is that all, sir?”

Masters smiled briefly and looked toward the Vice President.

“Not quite.

We’re expecting the British to join in, too.”

Craig felt everyone’s gaze converge on him. This was probably a historic moment, he thought, but no memorable oratorical gems came readily to mind.

“My Marines are ready, Commandant. When do we ship out?”

“As soon as you humanly can, Jerry. We’re on one helluva tight timetable for this op,” Masters replied.

“So who’s in command?” Craig needed to know whom he’d be working for.

Some grunt, probably. It might even be someone he knew.

For a split second Masters looked exactly like Lewis Carroll’s Cheshire

Cat at its most insufferable-all smiling teeth.

“You are. We’re making you Joint Task Force commander

Masters’s voice faded, and Craig suddenly felt hollow and a little dizzy,

Him? In charge of a combined operation? My God, they were offering him the equivalent to a corps command-no, better-a unified command. He’d be leading a mix of U.S. Army, Navy, and Air Force units, plus those of at least one other nation, into almost certain combat on the other side of the ocean.. - .

He suddenly realized he was woolgathering, and that it wasn’t a good idea to play space cadet in front of the Joint Chiefs. Might adversely affect his chance of promotion, he silently joked, and he realized he was a little euphoric.

“.. . amphibious operation so a Marine should be in overall command. You have a reputation for aggressiveness and energy, and you’ll need every bit of it. The President is planning to go on television tomorrow night, so we’ll be committed from the start. You can expect a lot of press attention, Jerry, and we need good press. “

Masters leaned toward him.

“We know you can fight. Can you handle the rest of the job? We’re the only ones who know you’ve been tapped for overall command. ” The commandant

nodded to the men seated around the table.

“If you turn down the top slot, you’ll still take the Second MEF overseas. We’d be disappointed, though, because we think you’re the best man for the job.

“This isn’t an order, it’s a request. Will you take command?”

Not an order, Craig thought. The big ones never are. They always give you a chance to back out, with honor. Of course, backing out would mean he could kiss any further promotion good-bye. He wouldn’t stand a chance at taking the top slot after Wcs retired. The theory was sound, though. Some men would find it easier to risk losing a promotion than a whole war.

Craig sat quietly for no more than a second. He tried to think objectively, to weigh his own strengths and limitations dispassionately.

But he already knew his answer. It was impossible for him to say no.

The flight back seemed even shorter than the trip north. Strapped into the Hornet rear seat, he could barely open the briefing book they’d given him. Nevertheless, what he saw as he leafed through summaries of his force structure and the latest intelligence strengthened his original belief that he could do the job. 6 .

Then he got to the thick annex labeled “Political Considerations.” For the first time since receiving his orders, Lt. Gen. Jerry Craig began to have doubts.

NOVEMBER 15-HEADQUARTERS, 3 COMMANDO BRIGADE, ROYAL MARINES,

DEVON PORT

ENGLAND

Brig. Neil Pascoe was sound asleep when his bedside command phone rang.

It trilled loudly six times before his hand fumbled past the nightstand lamp and found the receiver.

“Yes. What the bloody bell is it?”

The brigade’s duty officer sounded properly contrite.

“Major General

Vaughn on the line, sir. “

Pascoe came fully awake instantly. The commander of

Great Britain’s Commando Forces wasn’t known for calling his subordinates without good reason. Most especially not at half past two in the morning.

The line hummed and clicked.

“Pascoe?”

“Yes, sir. “

Vaughn came right to the point.

“I’m afraid events in South Africa have taken rather a nasty turn for the worse. I’ve just spoken with the PM, and he’s asked us to come to seventy two hours’ notice to move.”

CNN MORNING WATCH

The reporter stood in front of the main gate to the U.S. Marine Base at

Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. Behind him, a small crowd milled outside the base-workers entering or leaving, well-wishers waving small American flags, curiosity seekers, and a thin scattering of fringe-group protestors with signs. A mixed force of Marine MPs and North Carolina state troopers kept the two tiny groups apart-skinheads and KKK supporters to one side, leftists and aging Spartacus Youth League members to the other.

Green-painted trucks lumbered in and out of the gate, mixing with civilian cars and semitrailers. It made a picturesque background for his narrative.

“.. . catapulted into furious action by the events of the last forty-eight hours. Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, home of the Second

Marine Expeditionary Force, has erupted as the Marines prepare to embark on every available Navy hull and on several commercial vessels chartered by the Military Sealift Command. The container ship Gu~f Galaxy and several bulk cargo carriers are only the first of many that will be needed to carry the Marines and their equipment across the Atlantic to

South Africa.

“Ships are loading at Navy and commercial ports all along America’s

Atlantic coast, and overseas in Southampton, England, as the Royal

Marines embark as well.”

The image cut away to an aerial view of Wilmington. It was normally busy with merchant traffic and warships bound

for the shipyard or for the naval base there. Now it was choked with traffic, with dozens of ships literally filling the marked channels leading in and out of the busy waterway.

The camera zoomed in on the Navy base itself, showing cluttered gray ships pulled up to several piers, all the centers of frantic activity.

“These Navy ships will carry what official sources describe as ‘the leading elements of the Allied peacekeeping force.”

“Other Marines we’ve talked to used the term ‘assault echelon. “