“The base at Ras Assanya has been overrun,” the colonel said, using an electronic pointer.
A pain cut through the President’s gut.
“A Navy reconnaissance plane is stationed over the area and reports that all fighting has stopped… ”
“How old is that information?” National Security Adviser Cagliari said.
“Less than twenty minutes, sir. The United Arab Command is reinforcing a line between the Getty oil refinery at Mina Azure” — the colonel traced a line six miles south of the oil refinery located on the Persian Gulf — “and the beachhead the People’s Soldiers of Islam have carved out.” He circled the spot where the PSI had come ashore.
The pain in the President’s stomach got worse. “Has the PSI attacked the oil refinery?”
“No, sir, their objective was the base.”
“Oil… it always rears its ugly head.”
The room was silent. Then the colonel picked it up: “Our fleet is moving into position, the vanguard, two destroyers and a frigate, passed through the Strait of Hormuz an hour ago. They’re moving at flank speed toward Ras Assanya. The rest of the fleet is on-station in the Gulf of Oman.” He pointed to an area southeast of the strait. “The Carrier Air Group is on standby waiting for the Go to launch a strike at the PSI.”
The President wanted to be alone, have a little time to think before he acted. But time was what he did not have. The pain was turning to anger. He had, after all, the means to destroy the PSI. Give the order and send more people into harm’s way. He turned to Cagliari, who was now sitting next to him. “If I brought us up to DEFCON Two, would they get the signal how serious we are?”
“Wrong signal, sir. That would be announcing we’re on the verge of a major war. The Russians couldn’t ignore it; they’d increase their state of alert. They might even opt for preemptive moves… ”
“Mr. President” — Cyrus Piccard, Secretary of State, broke into the conversation — “I’ve some room to negotiate here and try to stabilize the situation, the region… But I need a restrained military response.” He waited, anxious to see if the President would consider other options.
“What do you need, Cy?” the President asked. The Secretary of State was a master at hiding his sharklike nature behind a facade of courtly manners and polite words.
“If you use the Navy and the United Arab Command, you can trap the PSI at Ras Assanya. Which makes them a bargaining chip.”
“But they’re holding over three hundred of our people prisoners,” Cagliari said.
“True, which makes the situation more delicate,” Piccard told him. “My people are in contact with the International Red Cross. We’re asking for them to monitor the status of the prisoners. If you bring the Rapid Deployment Force to full alert and start moving advance elements toward the Gulf, that will send the signal we’re considering military intervention. But we can send other messages. The Soviet ambassador is waiting for me in my office. The channels are open. Mr. President, if we do this right, we can hope to achieve our immediate objective: an end to the fighting.”
“And that’s a victory?”
“It’s the best we can get without a war.”
“But the cost… ” The President’s pain would not go away. Or his anger. It seemed so much for so little…
The men waiting in the ornate room the Kremlin reserved for Politburo meetings could hear the new General Secretary’s footsteps echo down the hall, and they all stood and applauded when he entered the room.
Viktor Rokossovksy, formerly the youngest and now the first among them, nodded, acknowledging the applause, and walked to the chair at the head of the table. He nodded again and sat down while the men continued to clap. He swept the table with an appreciative eye, stopping when he saw his old seat, now empty. Soon, he thought, one of my people will be sitting there. He could see the hard, satisfied look on Rafik Ulyanoff’s face. Even Kalin-Tegov, the party’s theoretician, looked pleased.
“Thank you, comrades,” Rokossovsky said; his first official words as General Secretary. “Please be seated. We must not waste valuable time.” The applause slowly died as the men sat down. “I’m concerned about the American reaction to their defeat in the Persian Gulf.”
Ulyanoff leaped forward. “We’re getting mixed signals. They’ve placed their Rapid Deployment Force on full alert but are not moving in mass. Our ambassador in Washington reports that the President seems to be looking for a negotiated settlement. There is a growing concern in the American press over the prisoners taken by the People’s Soldiers of Islam. The situation is fluid.”
“And the KGB?” Rokossovsky asked.
The pleasant-looking man who headed the KGB smiled. “Our agents report that the Iranians must negotiate. They no longer have the means to continue fighting.”
“I’m considering that it would be in our interests to stabilize the Persian Gulf for now,” Rokossovsky told them. “Especially if we can participate in the negotiations for a peace treaty. Your thoughts, please.”
“That would be consistent with our philosophy,” Kalin-Tegov said, “but we must reinforce any expansion of our influence in the diplomatic area with concrete developments inside Iran. Perhaps more non-military support to the Tudeh Party.”
He did not add, nor did he need to, “For the time being.”
Rokossovsky listened carefully to what Kalin-Tegov said. As the party’s theoretician, he had made it possible for Rokossovsky to depose the former General Secretary. “Then this is an opportunity to show the world that we can be peacemakers.”
“When it suits our needs,” the party theoretician said.
EPILOGUE
Cunningham had to walk. The protocol officer at Stonewood had set up a welcoming brief, a tour and a luncheon to keep the general occupied until the F-4s arrived, and out of politeness he had sat through the welcome by Brigadier General Shaw. But during a coffee break he sought out Mort Pullman. “Chief, let’s walk over to base Ops.”
The general walked in silence, reflecting on the irony of the situation. The fighting had ended and the antagonists were scrambling to find a new way to live with each other while the press looked for scapegoats to blame for the “defeat.” Yes, the PSI had overrun Ras Assanya and taken over three hundred prisoners, but now with the fleet standing offshore they couldn’t give them back quick enough. The Saudis wanted the remnants of the 45th out of Dhahran, but were demanding the U.S. fleet remain in the Gulf. Most of the press in Europe was claiming that the U.S. had started World War III, but the NATO governments were mightily pleased that oil was still flowing. And then a newly promoted Vice Air Marshall, Sir David Childs, had appeared in his office, telling him that the Prime Minister was under attack in Parliament because of British involvement in the Persian Gulf. But Her Majesty’s government would not object if five F-4s happened to recover at Stonewood under routine training operations in the next few days. The general had thanked Childs and scheduled a C-137B to take him to Stonewood.
As they made the short walk to the flight line, a staff sergeant saluted them, saying, “Forty-fifth, sir.” It was not the loud shout of the Army’s “Airborne, sir,” but a quiet statement of pride. More men and women passed them, each demanding a salute.