World War III

There was a long pause from the Crisis Room. “Yes,” the president said, “of course.”

McKenna set the receiver back in its cradle. He stared at it for some time and during the silence no one spoke.

“I’ve never ordered a man to his death before,” he said finally.

“Colonel Caffey is a professional soldier, Mr. President,” General of the Army Schriff said. “He understands his responsibility.”

“Does that make it any easier for us?” McKenna stared at the general.

“No, sir. It doesn’t.” Schriff bowed his head.

The telephone rang again. This time the president took it. “Yes?” He listened for several seconds. A muscle twitched in his jaw. He glanced at the empty screen, then turned to Farber. “Put up the map of the Near East.” Into the phone he said, “Yes, go on.” He studied the map, listening. “I see. What time was that?” He nodded. “No, don’t give me coordinates, Major. Thank you. Thank you very much.” He hung up the phone and looked grimly at Admiral Blanchard.

“They’ve rammed one of your destroyers in the Arabian Sea, Vern,” the president said.

“What?”

McKenna made a fist. “The sonofabitches!”

“Mr. President, where—”

McKenna got up and went to the map. “At seven this morning a Soviet light cruiser — ignoring warnings by flare, horn and radio — rammed the destroyer Peary… in international waters.” He stabbed a finger at the screen. “Here.”

“Rammed?” Farber said.

“The captain reported absolutely clear visibility. He reported that the cruiser made no response before, during or after the incident. He reported that he made two emergency course changes to avoid collision.

That sounds pretty premeditated to me.” He stared at the map. “First reports say at least twenty sailors killed outright.”

“Mr. President—”

“Goddamn them!” McKenna said. “What is Gomy thinking! What is he thinking!” He turned back to the table. “He’s pushing. If he thinks I’ll stand for that, by God… Jules, do I have any choice?”

Farber was looking at the map. He shook his head.

McKenna rubbed his temples. “Christ damn them,” he said in a low voice. He looked at Olafson.

“Order a DefCon Two, Mr. Chairman.”

The air force general picked up the phone immediately.

PHILIP SMITH RANGE 18 MILES WEST OF WHITE HILL

The communications van wasn’t a spacious place to begin with, but it was made smaller by the extra ammunition and dried-food crates from the vehicles they’d left behind. A faint scent of exhaust hung in the heavy air, and despite the monotonous drone of the heating units the van was cold. Colonel Vorashin sat mutely in a cramped space beside the radio operator, waiting for the transmission from Moscow which was already overdue. Major Saamaretz, flushed with triumph after returning from his successful attack on the Americans, made notes in his little book. He was an insipid little man, Saamaretz was, Vorashin thought as he watched him from three feet away. He wasn’t imaginative or particularly bright, but he had a shrewdness about him that marked him for political service. The party was always looking for such men. The KGB was, apparently, a stepping-stone to some position on the Kremlin staff. Possibly, as an aide to Rudenski himself. They were all shrewd, insipid little men as far as Vorashin was concerned. And there seemed to be more and more of them.

“Beta Twelve to Bearcat… Beta Twelve to Bearcat. Acknowledge, please.”

The radioman quickly fine-tuned a dial, then responded. “This is Bearcat, Beta Twelve. We are receiving you clearly.”

It was the ironic truth, Vorashin thought with amusement. From the first day he’d begun training for this mission the radio gear was a source of trouble. The Soviet-made transceivers didn’t work properly in the subzero temperatures no matter what tubes or transistor parts they inserted into them. Then a special KGB technician came to replace all the high-band-frequency radios with new models. They’d been freshly painted and the dialheads restenciled. It had made Vorashin curious until he had a look inside. All the circuitry codes were written in Japanese.

“Colonel-General Rudenski wishes to speak with Colonel Vorashin,” said a relatively clear voice from Moscow.

The radio operator glanced up, startled. Rudenski had never called himself. He handed his commander the microphone.

“This is Colonel Vorashin.”

There was a brief delay, then: “Hello, Colonel. This is comrade Rudenski. You are well, I trust?”

“Yes, sir. Well enough.”

“What are your coordinates this morning?”

Vorashin looked at the marks on the small map before him. He announced them precisely.

“Good,” Rudenski said. Vorashin detected a certain tenseness in his voice. “Colonel, Chairman Gorny is here with me. He wishes to speak to you. One moment.”

Saamaretz put down his notebook in stunned surprise. “Chairman Gorny? Chairman Gorny is calling us?”

Vorashin was surprised as well, but he didn’t show it.