Farber was the acknowledged chairman of the group, standing in for the president. They’d been here now well over two hours. The projected map on the screen was of northeast Alaska. A bright red marker had been placed at the location of a NORAD radar station that hadn’t been heard from in almost two days, and a dotted line had been drawn to a spot understood to be Juniper Junction near a place called Shublik Ridge.
The men in uniform were in shirtsleeves. The civilians had not even loosened a tie. Farber was speaking when the door opened and the president entered.
“Keep your seats, gentlemen,” he said. “I’m sorry to take so long, Jules. I didn’t want to cancel anything to give the press the idea that something urgent was brewing. The Cincinnati Boys Choir did two encores in the West Room and I couldn’t get away sooner.” He took his seat at the head of the table and glanced at the map. His demeanor changed immediately from social president to commander in chief.
“So, what the hell have we got in Alaska, gentlemen? Trouble?”
“It’s a special unit, Mr. President,” Farber said, speaking for the group. “They apparently neutralized a NORAD radar station”—he indicated the spot on the map with a pointer—”here. It bought them a radar-free corridor for a Pathfinder drop… paratroopers. A large desant unit.”
“Forgive me, Jules. You have to speak English. What’s a desant unit?”
“In Soviet terms it’s usually a battalion-strength force of elite troops designed to drop, clear, march and kill. They’re fast, talented and… deadly.”
McKenna nodded at the map. “And that’s where they are?” He squinted to see the name. “Shublik Ridge?”
“That’s where our people made contact with them,” said General Schriff of the army. The four stars on his collar glittered in the artificial light. “It’s the last known location of the unit. Assuming their rate of march is consistent and that Colonel Caffey’s observation represents the entire unit, they should be approximately”— he stood and pointed out a spot on the map a few inches to the west of the last dotted line—”there.”
“What I want to know, General,” McKenna said with a smile, “is where the hell they’re going?”
“We believe the intruding force will strike at one of three tactical positions within four days, Mr.
President,” said Secretary of Defense Tennant. “The civilian community of Stagwon, the ranger post at Mancha Creek or the pipeline at White Hill.”
“There’s nothing strategic about Stagwon unless they’re out to get laid,” said Tankersley of the CIA.
McKenna looked at General Schriff. “What about this ranger post?”
“It’s nothing vital, Mr. President. Certainly not worth a strike force of this size.”
“So, that leaves the pipeline,” the president said. He looked around the table. “Right?”
“We haven’t deduced any realistic motivation for a Soviet strike force to be marching on our Alaskan oil source, Mr. President,” Farber said. He removed his glasses and rubbed at them with an enormous handkerchief. “None that we can agree on that is worth the risk, that is.”
Defense Secretary Tennant said, “What would they do with it? There’s no possible way they can use the pipeline short of siphoning off a few barrels. Anyway, if the Soviets needed oil their thrust would be in the Persian Gulf area — that’s in their own backyard.”
“Are we certain that these are Soviet troops?” McKenna asked. “From my daily briefings I’ve been advised of no indications of any Soviet preparation for a concerted military action.” He looked down the table at Tankersley of the CIA. “Am I correct, Burt?”
Tankersley nodded bleakly without making direct eye contact with the president. “Yes, sir. Our Kremlin section has nothing to indicate any operation of this scale except some unusual troop movements in the Eastern Siberian area, but nothing that would support something like this.”
“‘No indications,’” the president repeated. He looked at the map again. “They have no backup units anywhere near the area, no capabilities for reinforcements, supply, or even to be withdrawn.” He looked back at his advisors. “Gentlemen, as commander in chief of this country’s military, I am not allowed to make mistakes. Not one. In order to deal with a situation like this I must have a few crucial facts on which to base some logical response. So, tell me”—he raised his voice so that it echoed in the room—”who the hell are these people and what are they doing in my United States!” He sat back in his chair and stared angrily down the table. “Jules, you have the floor.”
“Despite the lack of ‘indications,’ Mr. President, I think we can reasonably assume that what we are dealing with is a Soviet strike force. Beside the fact that as a matter of policy we expect intrusions of this nature to be Soviet, in this case, I think, by simple elimination, we can deduce that they are Soviet.”
“How exactly do you deduce that, Jules?”
Farber rubbed at his glasses again. “Who else could it be, Mr. President? We also mustn’t dismiss Colonel Caffey’s report. He saw them.”
McKenna nodded. “How reliable is this colonel?” He looked at General Schriff.
“He’s one of the best, Mr. President. He was just transferred in as deputy brigade commander from the 82nd Airborne, where he was training and tactical planning chief of staff. He’s bright, aggressive and had combat experience in Vietnam as a company commander. I’d stake my reputation on his reliability.”
“More than your reputation, I think,” McKenna said. He raised a hand to cut off any reply. “All right.
All right. They’re Russians. I’m convinced. I just don’t like to jump into a situation cold. You ought to know that the secretary of state has spoken to the Soviet ambassador. He was asked bluntly what a military unit of the Soviet Army was doing in our sovereign section of the Arctic Circle. Of course, he denied it. Comrade Orlavski is a great denier, which I can only assume is why he is the ambassador.
But is he denying or lying or doesn’t he know? Anyway, that’s to inform you that State is involved in this now, too.”
The president stood up. “I’ve been sitting all damn day. If you gentlemen don’t mind, I’ll just walk for a while. I think better on my feet.” He grinned. “It gives my brain a rest.” McKenna began pacing. “All right, then. Let’s put this together. We’ve got about a thousand hostiles raising hell on our block.
Therapy One. Send in a squadron of F-16s from Elmendorf and simply eliminate them.” He glanced at General Olafson. “Phil? How bad is the weather up there for you?”
“Too bad, Mr. President. We can’t get in there. That front has us blocked out like a sealed dome. I could send them, of course, but we’d never penetrate that weather. Fighter bombers, unfortunately, aren’t effective weapons in the middle of a blizzard over extremely mountainous terrain.”
“What about SAC?”
“B-52s are airplanes, too, Mr. President,” Olafson said gloomily.
“So much for Therapy One,” the president said. He turned to the army. “Therapy Two, Max. Ground troops.”
“I can get a division to Seattle in forty-eight hours,” Schriff said.
“That’s fine, General, but I need them at Shublik Ridge — now.”