World War III

“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 “They have no backup units anywhere near the area, no capabilities for reinforcements, supply, or even to be withdrawn.”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.”

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.