World War III

Caffey rested against the side of the snowcat. He grabbed Parsons by the shoulder and screamed in his face to make himself heard. “Get the men in the chopper!”

“We’re the only ones not in it!” the Eskimo sergeant screamed back. “Where’s the general?”

“Dead!” Caffey grabbed Parsons’s hand and put it on the wounded soldier’s hood. “Get him in the chopper!”

“Okay!”

“Are the keys in the cat?” Caffey pointed at the driver’s door.

Parsons gave an exaggerated nod.

“Go!” Caffey yelled. “Take off in thirty seconds whether I’m there or not.”

“Colonel—”

“Go, goddamnit!”

Caffey pushed him toward the chopper. He opened the snowcat door and swung himself into the driver’s seat, propping the door open with his rifle. He switched on the ignition and pressed the starter.

The diesel engine turned, chugging for life. “Start, you fucking beast!”

He pressed again and it caught with a sputter, then roared. “Now… move!” He set the gear in low and the cat lurched forward. Caffey swung it around in a direction parallel to the ridge but toward the clearing away from the chopper. He was guessing where the clearing was. He couldn’t see a damn thing.

He shifted into high, then pointed the M-16 out the door in the general direction of where he thought the Soviets were positioned and emptied the clip. Within seconds they returned fire. Bullets pinged through the cat’s thin metal. The window splintered. Caffey jammed the rifle between the seat and the steering wheel and jumped clear. He was running as he hit the ground.

“Go!” Caffey screamed, scrambling at the side door of the chopper. “Go! Go! Keep below the ridge line! GO!”

Kate and Cordobes and Parsons pulled him in as the Jet Ranger lifted off the ground, swung west and accelerated. “Keep below the ridge line,” Caffey yelled toward the cockpit. “The rockets can’t track you below the ridge.”

“He knows,” Cordobes said.

“Where’s Roberts?” Kate said. She helped Caffey sit up. “What happened—”

“He’s dead.”

“Are you su—”

“They blew his head off,” Caffey said angrily. “Yes, I’m sure.”

Suddenly there was an explosion behind them. A plume of black smoke rose from the tiny battlefield in the snow.

“What was that!” Cordobes said.

“Scratch one US Army snowcat.” Caffey leaned back against the bulkhead. “I figured it was something they should shoot at instead of us. Helicopters are not known for their bulletproof characteristics.” He glanced around him. The bay was crowded with soldiers, some tending to their wounded comrades, others just staring mutely out the open door. “What’s the count?”

“Six wounded,” Kate said. “Two are serious. The copilot was also hit above the ear. Almost blew his helmet off, but he’ll be okay.”

Caffey looked at Cordobes. “Where’s Lieutenant Speck?”

The captain shook his head.

“Shit!”

“Ed did get the message off to TAG COM,” Cordobes said. “Washington knows.”

“Was there a response?”

The captain shrugged. “The bastard who killed Ed Speck also destroyed his radio. He just had time to get an acknowledgment before…” He wiped a sleeve over his face. “What’s going to happen now, Colonel?”

Caffey shook his head. He looked out at the blur of trees and snow as the helicopter rushed past them.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “I don’t know. Washington will tell us something.”

One of the soldiers beside Caffey leaned toward him. “Are we at war, sir?” he said in a tow voice. He was barely twenty, Caffey thought. Someone else’s blood was smeared across the front of his parka.

“Are we, sir?”

“I hope not, son,” Caffey said, looking away at the snow and ice below. “God, I hope not.”

Col. Gen. Aleksey Rudenski was in the library of his home, sitting before an evening fire reading Chairman Gorny’s redevelopment plan for the Central Committee, when the call came. Major Suloff was brief.

“We’ve received a signal from Section Nine, comrade General.”

Rudenski set the report aside. “They are on schedule then?”

“One day earlier than anticipated.”

“Excellent.”

“They have made contact with a parallel group.”

Rudenski frowned. “Yes?”

“Patrol strength. An observation unit only. An hour ago.”

“I see. Then we can assume Washington has been informed?”

“Yes, comrade General. We expect they have been.”

Rudenski nodded to himself. “Good, Major. Very good. Thank you for calling.” He replaced the telephone and looked into the fire. “Now we see what the chairman is made of,” he said softly. “Bull or lamb…”

WHCR 1930 HRS

The White House Crisis Room was located in the subbasement of the presidential mansion, built in the days when it was believed crises were best handled deep underground, safe from atomic blasts and fallout. Crises were still discussed and argued there though, since the advent of relatively pinpoint-accurate megaton-hydrogen weapon systems, its effective life-supporting and safety characteristics were qualitatively reduced to those of a very deep tomb.