The four-star commander shrugged. “I’m sorry, Mr. President. We face the same problem as General Olafson. With weather socked in like it is up there now, I couldn’t get to them in less than a week.
Maybe longer.”
“What about paratroopers?” He gestured toward the map. “For godsakes, isn’t that what those people are?”
“Yes, sir.” Schriff licked his lips. “But they dropped at least two days ago, Mr. President — ahead of the front. We’d be jumping into that weather. And that’s suicide… even if we could get a plane within thirty miles of that strike force, we don’t have an airborne unit equipped for cold-weather jumps. Even if—”
McKenna held up his hand. “Thank you, General. I appreciate the problem.” He turned to the chief of naval operations. “Admiral?”
“The Eighth Fleet is in the Caspian Sea, Mr. President,” Admiral Blanchard said.
“Where it belongs,” said the secretary of defense defensively.
“I’m satisfied that planes, troops and ships are where they belong, Alan. The trouble is I can’t use them.”
“We do have Polaris subs in the Bering Strait,” the admiral offered.
The president glanced up and stared at him for several moments. “There hasn’t been a hostile use of a nuclear weapon in thirty-eight years, Admiral,” he began, “and if you think I’m going to launch a hydrogen warhead on the state of Alaska”—his face contorted in anger—”from one of my own submarines…”
“Mr. President, I didn’t mean…”
McKenna calmed himself. “Of course not, General. I apologize for that.” He took a long, heavy breath.
“Well, then, we don’t seem to have a lot of options, do we? For an intruder force that seems to have no purpose, they’ve thought this one out pretty well. The bottom line is that we can’t get at them. Anyone care to disagree with that assessment?”
“Temporarily,” General Olafson said hopefully. “This weather won’t last for more than three days—
four at the most.”
“I have to assume they know that, General. So, now what?” The president looked at Farber, who was quietly cleaning his glasses. “Jules? I haven’t heard anything lately from your corner.”
“I think initiating a mass mobilization effort without calling attention to it would be proper.”
“That would be a nice trick, Jules.”
“No trick at all, Mr. President. Activate our ready reaction forces for a training and evaluation exercise.
The Joint Chiefs do it often enough — to test reaction time. By notifying the Readiness Command at Tampa, alerting units of the 82nd from Bragg and the 9th Division from Lewis, swinging the Mediterranean Fleet around… we are mobilized without causing a big row. So, when conditions are right—”
“We’ll have half a million men to do a job next week instead of half a division today?” McKenna finished.
“Or anything else that comes up, Mr. President. As you are aware, we don’t know precisely what that Soviet force is doing up there. Maybe they’re after the pipeline, maybe not.”
“I don’t think it’s a surprise attack on Canada, Jules.”
Farber placed the glasses over his face carefully. “Nor do I, Mr. President.”
McKenna walked to the map. “Meanwhile, all I have within striking distance of this elite corps of Soviet arctic paratroopers is less than a company of untried National Guardsmen commanded by a lieutenant colonel whose only combat experience was in the jungles and rice paddies of Southeast Asia.” He turned on his heels. “I wonder, gentlemen, with a counterforce like that… how could we possibly lose?”
JONES’S STRIP
2245 HRS
The landing strip was a scene of swirling confusion. Night flares had been set out for the four helicopters as they made alternate takeoffs and landings, discharging soldiers and supplies, then returning in the worst of weather to Fire Base Bravo for the rest of the company. Caffey had been ordered to set up a forward CP at Jones’s Strip and to use every man available. He didn’t ask what his command post was to be forward of. He knew there wasn’t anyone else for two hundred miles and there wouldn’t be until the weather cleared.
Captain Cordobes and Sergeant Parsons were everywhere, running in and out of the LZ, ordering arrivals into one of the two hangars for shelter, moving equipment, resetting flares, inventorying ammunition as it was unloaded — all in the blistering night’s cold. The last chopper nearly flipped in a sudden heavy gust as it blasted through the darkness toward the homemade circle of fire, but the pilot righted the craft in time to avoid disaster.
Jones’s cabin was CP headquarters and it was busily active with soldiers tramping in and out. Caffey and Kate wore their parkas and stood behind the radio operator as he tried to establish contact with Fairbanks, which was to patch him directly through to the army chief of staff in Washington. Caffey wasn’t attached to the 171st Infantry Brigade anymore and he hadn’t been since noon today. He was taking orders directly from TAC COM — Pentagon. Once he thought how pleased Nancy would have been.
“We found my scouts,” Cordobes said as he kicked his feet against the stone fireplace. He held up a handful of identity tags.
“How many?” Caffey asked.
“All of them — nine. We also found Mr. and Mrs. Jones.”
“Where?”
“Shoveled neatly into a snowbank behind the Quonset hut. All of them together. Some of them were almost cut in half by—” Cordobes glanced at Kate. “I mean…”
“It’s all right, Captain,” she said. “I know what an automatic weapon at close range can do to the human body.”
Cordobes nodded. He looked at Caffey. “Anyway, Colonel, I figured we’d better leave them there until someone can come and… you know.”
“What about their weapons?”
“They didn’t have any.”
Caffey glanced at Kate. “They’re pros, all right.”
“I guess the Russians took them,” said the captain.
“I guess,” Caffey said.
The radio operator suddenly sat back in his chair. “Holy shi-it!” He looked quickly up at Caffey. “Oh I’m sorry, sir. I—” He pointed to the radio. “It’s TAC COM, sir. They say Orchid wants to speak to you.
Orchid is…”
“I know who it is, Sergeant.” Caffey took the headphones. “Go have a smoke, soldier.”
The radio operator untangled himself from the microphone cord. “Yes, sir.” He got up from his place.
“Oh, sir, it’s a secure net call. There’ll be a two-second delay for the voice incoder/decoder between each transmission.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.” Caffey put the headphones on and sat in the operator’s chair. He ripped off a new page from the pad in front of him and found a pencil. “This is Gallant Entry Six, over.”
“Lieutenant Colonel Jacob Caffey?” The familiar voice sounded a very long way away. “This is the president speaking. Do you hear me all right?”
“Yes, sir. Loud and clear, sir. Over.” He wrote MCKENNA in block letters on the pad. He heard Cordobes’s intake of breath.
“Caffey, I don’t have time to learn correct radio procedure or worry about who is listening in here, if anyone can. Just bear with me. I have to talk to you straight and I’d appreciate it if you’d do the same.
Okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“First, what is the accurate head count up there?”
Caffey took the clipboard Kate was holding. “Ninety-three warm bodies. Five officers. Thirteen NCOs.
All the rest are part-timers, sir. Guardsmen.”
“They’re full-timers now, Colonel. They’ve just been federalized. You can break the news to them.”
“I already have.”