Stern grabbed his pipe to keep it from dropping out of his mouth. Griffin stood with his head cocked in amazement. Across the TOC a just-arrived Middletown fought his way through the canvas door flaps in time to hear Cooper’s analysis. He, too, stared wide-eyed at Cooper’s imposing presence.
“Who is this guy?” Middletown sputtered.
“When did you get a backbone?” Griffin asked.
Alex Stern struck another match and puffed to get his pipe going again. It’s the real thing now, thought Stern. You’re either fluff or you’re something substantial; too many were nothing but fluff. His face wore the envious smile of a man who watches another come into his own, knowing that as he watches he still has some distance to go himself.
“Captain Cooper, I’m glad you’ve arrived. Hail fellow, well met.”
“Thank you, Sir. This is, after all, my job.”
By all the press accounts and from his carefully managed media image, he was a patient man — one who listened carefully to all points of view, one who considered every angle, one who wanted every cost and every benefit fully explained before he decided. Yet after 31/2 hours of charts and graphs and satellite imagery photos and briefings, the president wanted just one thing from his advisors and chiefs of a dozen acronymed agencies — NS A, DOD, JCS, CIA. The president addressed those who sat around the polished mahogany conference table in the Crisis Management Center briefing room.
“The bottom line, ladies and gentlemen. What’s the bottom line?”
Except for his five-minute pitch on the posture of U.S. ground forces in Germany and the readiness of the stateside Rapid Deployment Forces (RDF), General A1 Carrie had kept quiet. Giving Defense’s readout was the secretary’s job; presenting the services’ assessment was the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff’s responsibility. Carrie held only the title of Chief of Staff of the Army. He was bit player in the larger production. Yet it was not “Big Al’s” way to keep quiet, and the heavy silence as the agency and department heads declined to tell it like it was wore on him.
“Mr. President,” he said, able to take it no longer.
“Yes, General?”
“The bottom line, Sir, is that we have one brigade that appears to be moving to the depot where the nuclear and chemical munitions stocks are stored. It appears that a German force is trying to interpose itself between the depot and that brigade, suggesting they don’t want us to have the depot. It also appears, from the satellite shots, that the depot itself has come under attack.”
“Fair enough. Who told this guy to take off on his own for the munitions dump?”
The secretary of defense coughed. Heads turned. “You did, Mr. President.”
“I did?”
“Two months ago Executive Order 23445 directed the services to increase the protection of sensitive installations. That order went forward as a “PERSONAL FOR” message under the signature of theater commanders.”
“And the army’s just now getting around to it? Who decided to wait until the middle of a German revolution to execute orders?”
“That individual is dead, Sir.”
“What about his superior?”
“Also dead, Sir.”
“Just who in hell is in charge over there?”
“As I briefed, Sir, the deputy assistant for…”
The president cut him off. “We have deputy assistants running the show? Where are…”
It was the secretary’s turn to interrupt. “Dead, Sir. All killed in the assault on the Baumflecken facility.”
“Okay, okay. So what’s left of the army in Europe is sitting still while this one guy is doing something. Can we help this guy?” The president turned to the general in blue. “What about your air assets?” The chief of staff of the air force dropped his eyes to the table. “The Germans have refused us permission to fly, citing the terrorist threat. Nothing, military or civilian, is going in or out of any airfield anywhere in the country. They’ve also sent a backchannel communique stating that any violation of their airspace from outside or any attempt to launch aircraft from our German bases would be considered a hostile act. They’ve stationed combat air patrols over the airfields as well as over the army’s kasemes. We’d never get off the ground.”
“How about the RDF?”
“Sending them in without air cover is suicide, Mr. President.” The president shook his head sadly. “I still can’t believe we can’t even talk to this guy to tell him he’s on his own.”
“We went over that, Sir. With everybody else locked down on their bases and with no TACSAT commo, there’s just no way to reach him.” The head of the largest military and economic power in the world sat back in his chair. “Gentlemen, our European allies — the other ones— have all expressed concern but counseled caution. The Israelis have said the situation is intolerable and that they’ll respond, and if I know them at all that response will be quick and massive.” He paused to think. “I want Defense and State to start negotiating with the other members of NATO for forward deployment of air and land forces. Twist whatever arms you need to.” He waved off the almost-spoken objections of the JCS chairman. “I know what you said about shortage of air lift — work around it.”
“Mr. President, by the time we can assemble and deploy enough forces to…”
“I know, by that time it’ll be too late. Perhaps the threat will slow them down. I don’t see that we have any other options. Does anyone else?”
The room was silent.
“Then gentlemen,” said the president, “the bottom line is that it all rests on some army colonel named Alexander Stern.”
Stern, Griffin, and Middletown stood staring at the situation map. Stern traced the cavalry troop’s dispositions with his finger.
“How long is the ride to the Cav, Captain Middletown?”
“About twenty minutes, Sir,” The S3 replied. Griffin eyed his boss warily. “You’re not thinking of going up there, are you?”
“I want to see what’s going on for myself,” answered Stern. “It’s the one place I haven’t been tonight.”
“Sir,” Middletown protested, “it’s dark and late and dangerous.”
“I’m used to the dark, and I’m used to being up late, and I’m getting used to the danger. Where’s my track driver?”
“Probably asleep, like you should be,” lectured Griffin.
“At least take my tank, Sir,” implored Middletown. “My crew’s still awake, except for the gunner, and that old M60 will run 45 mph easy— much faster than your track. You’ll be up there in no time, and it’s got a lot more protection than that flimsy track of yours.”
“What are you doing, Captain, calling my track ‘flimsy’? Oh all right, I’ll take your tank and sleep between stoplights.”
He was halfway out of the TOC when he turned to Middletown. “Where’s your gunner?”