Farber took his hand away from the phone. “Exactly, Mr. President.”
McKenna nodded. He exhaled a heavy breath. “We’re a handful of real sonofabitches, aren’t we, Jules?”
He picked up the receiver. “Hello,” he said evenly, “this is the head fucking asshole speaking.”
Caffey had moved his CP to the bedroom. The main room of the cabin had been patched up and was now a hospital ward which was crowded with wounded. Except he had nothing to give them. All the medical supplies had been used up or destroyed. He was treating gunshot wounds and burns with aspirins and iodine from the Joneses’ medicine cabinet. There wasn’t anything else.
He pressed the headphone closer to his ears when he heard the president’s voice again. It wasn’t the best connection. The signal wavered between poor and worse; but it was the best he could get, so he waited patiently each time the transmission faded. He glanced up at Kate and gave her a thumbs-up sign. The company’s entire officer corps hovered around the radio — all four of them.
“Yes, Mr. President, I still hear you,” Caffey said.
“What do you have left?” McKenna asked.
“I had ninety-two officers and men the last time we spoke,” Caffey said, looking at a list of names on a clipboard. “This morning I have nine people who can stand up… sixteen wounded. The rest are dead.”
There was a pause from Washington. “I’m sorry for what you’ve been through, Colonel. I know it’s been hell. I appreciate what you’ve done for me and for the country.”
“You said it would be a dirty job, sir.”
“I won’t forget it, Caffey. You can believe that.”
“What I’d like, sir, is some idea when I can get my wounded out of here. You said that there was a possibility that the weather would break soon. We’d like to get out of here, sir.”
“Yes, eh, I understand that, Colonel. Believe me, I do. I’m here with the Joint Chiefs of Staff and they each send you a heartfelt ‘Well done.’”
“My men are dying,” Caffey answered sharply. “I don’t need thanks, Mr. President. I need help.”
“Look, Caffey, I’m going to explain a situation to you that only a handful of people in the world are aware of. The Soviet Union has alerted its military to Mach Eagle readiness in response to our Defense Condition Three.…”
“We’ve gone to DefCon?” He glanced up at the faces around him.
“Just listen, please, Colonel. I’ve just returned from Iceland, where I met secretly with Chairman Gorny himself about this situation. I tried to bargain with him, but I have to assume I can’t haggle that task force of his out of there in the time we have left before they reach White Hill. Everyone is talking about avoiding war, but the situation keeps getting worse. We are very close to the edge, Colonel. Can you appreciate that? At this moment the Soviets are mobilizing. They’re sending a carrier task force in the direction of the Bering Strait. We are sitting on a bomb here and that’s no pun. Everything rests on whether or not that Soviet force reaches its objective. We need a few more hours, Caffey. If you can hold them up just that long—”
“Hold them!”
“—until the weather breaks, you’ll have all the help you can use. I’ll send the whole goddamn air force to you. But we need that time!”
Caffey wiped a hand across his face. “Mr. President, did you hear what I said? I have nine people here!
Nine! How do you expect me—”
“I have two hundred million people here, Colonel.”
“Jesus!” Caffey closed his eyes.
“You said you still have a helicopter. What about ammunition?”
Caffey shook his head. “We’re down to — I don’t know. Whatever it is, sir, it isn’t much.”
“Whatever it is, Colonel, it’ll have to do!” The president paused. “Colonel Caffey, I’m sorry.”
“Yes, sir. I know.”
“Hit them as hard as you can. Even if you have to use the helicopter…” McKenna’s voice trailed off.
“I’ll do whatever I can, Mr. President.” Caffey glanced at the grim faces around him. “Sir, when this is over, I…” He took a deep breath.
“Yes?”
“If you could notify our families… personally, I mean…”
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.