World War III

“Which is exactly what he’d like us to do,” Vorashin said. “He hasn’t got the men or the equipment to stage a decisive battle. He knows we would destroy him. That’s why he’s resorted to this skirmish action — hit and run. Sting and fall back.”

“He?” The KGB major looked puzzled. “Who is he?”

“The American commander who is leading that troublesome unit. My adversary.”

“Then do it, Colonel. Destroy him!”

“And waste time chasing him across the Arctic Circle?” Vorashin shook his head. “No, Saamaretz. Our mission objective is White Hill. We will continue as planned.”

“And let them hit us again?” Saamaretz had his little book out. “Do you plan to let them strike again?”

“I plan to let him try,” the colonel said softly. “His advantage of surprise is now used.” He glanced at the sky again. “He’ll be back. Next time, we will be ready.”

THE WHITE HOUSE 1330 HRS TUESDAY DECEMBER 15

“Lost a satellite?” The president rose angrily from his desk. “Lost a satellite! Is that what he said?”

They were in the Oval Office, just the president, Jules Farber, Alan Tennant and Elizabeth Rawley, quietly taking notes. Farber had five minutes earlier returned from a meeting with the Soviet ambassador.

“That’s what he said, Mr. President.”

“And they’re taking a risk like this to recover a satellite?” McKenna shook his head.

“Not just any satellite,” said the secretary of defense. Alan Tennant shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“Perhaps it is so crucial to them that they can’t afford for us to find it. We know, for instance, that they’ve been working on a particle-beam weapon—”

“Oh, for chrissake, Alan, there isn’t any goddamn satellite! I know that. You know it. You’d think Orlavski would be too embarrassed to even say a thing like that.” McKenna paced behind his desk. “I can’t believe Gorny would risk war over a piece of hardware. I wouldn’t.”

“It’s a stall,” Farber said. He held his glasses up to the light, then took the handkerchief from his jacket pocket and proceeded to rub at the lenses. “Gorny is trying to buy time.”

“For what? We know that they’re headed for the pipeline. What we don’t know is why.” The president turned to Tennant. “Olafson was going to put some Phantoms up… to test the weather. Did he?”

Tennant nodded glumly. “Yes, sir. Two F-4s from Elmendorf. One crashed on takeoff. The other got his radar equipment jammed up in the weather. He… he hit a mountain thirty miles from the base.”

McKenna closed his eyes. For several seconds he was silent. Finally, he said softly, “No more. No more suicide missions. We’ll wait for the weather to clear.”

“They might as well be on another planet, sir,” Tennant said defensively. “We can’t help Caffey and we can’t touch them.”

“I already know what I can’t do, Alan.”

Farber put his glasses back on his face. “Admiral Blanchard has been pushing for the use of his Polaris subs again.”

“You know what my response to that is, Jules,”

“I promised him that I’d give you the pitch.”

The president sighed. He stopped pacing and leaned against the back of his chair. “One minute,” he said, glancing at his watch.

“The Ulysses is in the Bering,” Farber began. “It’s carrying prototype Tomahawk cruise missiles. He says the crew can rearm the missile with a lew-grade nuke, move the sub under the ice to the Beaufort Sea where he’d be within 130 miles of the target.”

“Which is very accurate, Mr. President,” Tennant added. “A direct hit by the Tomahawk would wipe out the invading column in a single blow.”

“Accurate? In that weather?” McKenna looked sternly at his secretary of defense. “And if it were a mile off, or even half a mile…?”

“It’s passed a battery of tests—”

“In subzero blizzards, Alan?” He shook his head.

“We have one small US Army unit up there at the moment to keep a check on them. What if the Tomahawk was off a tenth of a degree? I’m talking hundreds of yards here. What if it missed the Soviets and, ‘in a single blow,’ wiped out our team?” McKenna pushed himself away from the chair. He glanced at Farber. “You can tell the admiral thanks, Jules, but I’m not that desperate yet.”

“There is also this from Tankersley’s boys at Central Intelligence.” Farber opened a file from his briefcase. “They’ve got a theory you should be aware of, Mr. President.”

“Just what I need,” said the president from the other side of the room. “Another theory.”

“You wanted this briefing, Mr. President,” Farber said, slightly annoyed. “‘Three heads were better than nine,’ I think you put it.”

“All right, Jules. All right. What is Tankersley’s theory?”