World War III

“That the Alaskan operation is merely a diversion from the main arena — Europe.” Farber adjusted his glasses as he looked over the CIA contingency synopsis. “With a preoccupation in Alaska, the Soviets may be planning a sudden chemical or biological attack through the GDR. If they can take out West Germany without a nuclear strike, they can mount a massive propaganda campaign to the effect that they have once again saved Western Europe from a reemerging Nazi era and—”

“The CIA came up with that?”

Farber glanced up but said nothing.

“Gorny isn’t going to mount an assault on Europe,” McKenna said sarcastically. “Christ!”

“There’s a second contingency theory, Mr. President.” Farber turned to another page. “An OPEC suicide force — a joint effort on their part to mangle our pipeline. Kill our hopes for the North Slope oil and keep us bending our knees toward Mecca and the Persian Gulf.”

“I can believe that some of the Arab crazies would think up such a scheme,” McKenna said dryly, “but I don’t buy the Soviets going along. They have too much to lose. We are talking about the very real possibility of war, gentlemen.” The president paced with his hands folded behind his back. “They didn’t lose a satellite. They aren’t there as a diversion and they aren’t there as part of a damn OPEC-inspired plot to cripple our oil supply. We know they are Soviet troops. We know they’re in Alaska and we know they’re heading for our pipeline.” He stopped abruptly and looked up. “Does anyone have any other ideas?”

Tennant shook his head silently.

Farber closed the file in his lap. “An idea, yes,” he said.

“Well?”

“Food,” said the National Security Council advisor as he rubbed at his glasses again.

“Food?”

“The embargo. Grain is a weapon, Mr. President. We’re using it, at least, with the same effect. People are starving in the Soviet Union.”

The president frowned. “Somehow I’m missing the connection, Jules. What has our oil got to do with their shortage of grain?”

“Blackmail,” Farber said. He replaced the glasses on his face. “Consider Chairman Gorny’s dilemma, Mr. President. He wants no part of a nuclear brawl with us. He cannot afford to see his country disintegrate because of famine — something we could do something about. He also doesn’t need a KGB bullet in the back of his neck, which is a possibility if he doesn’t do something to ease his country’s crisis. So, he thinks, if we hold back our grain from him… he’ll hold back our oil from us.”

The president considered it several minutes, pacing back and forth across the Great Seal of the United States woven into the Oval Office rug.

“It’s possible,” McKenna said finally. “It is possible, isn’t it?”

“It’s an idea, Mr. President.”

“Blackmail.” McKenna shook his head. “But if that is the explanation… Christ, doesn’t he realize he’s flirting with war?”

“I think he’s counting on our cool heads to prevail, Mr. President.”

“My head, you mean.”

Farber shrugged but said nothing.

McKenna walked to a window and stared out at the Rose Garden. “Alan, when do we expect that strike force will reach White Hill?”

“Colonel Caffey’s team has hit them once already,” Tennant offered. “It’s slowed them—”

“When?”

Tennant gave Farber a sober look. “Forty-eight hours, give or take, Mr. President.”

“And when will the weather let up?”

“We’re not quite sure.”

McKenna turned back to face them. “Then we have forty-eight hours to work out something before that strike force reaches White Hill and our pipeline… which will necessitate a very grim confrontation.”

“Yes, sir, that’s what it looks like.”

The president nodded. “Let’s pray, to God Lieutenant Colonel Caffey is the genius they say he is… or that the weather breaks.” He looked at his National Security Council advisor.

“Amen,” Farber said.

JONES’S STRIP 1700 HRS

One of the hangars had been cannibalized to repair and insulate the other. It wasn’t a beautiful job, but all it had to do was retain a reasonable amount of heat, which it accomplished, barely. But Caffey’s primary problem wasn’t keeping the men warm. His problem was keeping enough of them alive after each contact with the enemy (he was using the word now openly) so they could fight again. And again.

Until he’d run out of men or ammunition, or until the Soviets quit and went home.

And they weren’t quitting.

They’d keep it up, Caffey told one of his NCOs in response to a question during debriefing earlier, if they had to resort to throwing rocks and iceballs. Which was exactly what they’d be down to if later contacts were as costly as the first had been.