Ian Slater - WW III

“But,” said Kiril Marchenko upon hearing the news, “why didn’t the interviewing board mention this before?” He had a colleague who knew one of the top men in the Moscow Hospital, where they’d pioneered “laser spot surgery” on a mass assembly line — why, the outpatients could even listen to tapes, from Beethoven to heavy rock, as they were operated on. “I did not tell you, Comrade Marchenko,” the general said without a trace of embarrassment, “because then you were only a major in the STAVKA. If there is a possibility, I will let you know.”

In Washington it was 5:30 a.m. and President Mayne was in his smaller West Wing office, which he was using more than the Oval Office for the day-to-day war conferences. He refused to go down into the situation room anymore unless it was absolutely crucial, for no matter how leak-proof he thought his White House staff was, the mere suggestion that the president was retiring to the situation room sent tremors through the country. Neither General Gray nor Trainor liked the room very much, but the president noticed Harry Schuman looked rather comfortable in it. But if so, Harry Schuman’s contented air was about to be ruffled as the President told Gray that, although he had given presidential approval for the Salt Lake City battle group to provide air cover for the airborne attacks on the Korean supply line, under no circumstances was the battle group to support the Taiwanese navy to the south of them.

General Gray did not show it, but he was shocked. “Mr. President, the Taiwanese are superbly equipped. If they start shelling the mainland, they’ll have to protect themselves, and that will bottle up the Chinese nicely. Keep ‘em off our Seventh Fleet’s back while we try to take the pressure off the Yosu-Pusan perimeter.”

Then Mayne astonished not only Gray and Harry Schuman but Trainor as well when he announced, “I’ve put through a call to Beijing this morning, to Premier Lin Zhou, and I told him that despite any Chinese logistical support for North Korea, I would not authorize an attack on Chinese soil if he ceased such logistical support henceforth, nor would I endorse or support any such attack on Chinese soil by the Taiwanese navy, and we would actually oppose, militarily if need by, any such attack by the Taiwanese.”

Gray could no longer maintain the pretense of calm. “Mr. President, I must protest in the strongest possible terms. In my view…” He paused. “Sir, this is, militarily speaking, extremely unsound. Believe me, Mr. President—”

“General, the Soviet Union has over a million crack first-line troops — I repeat, over a million crack troops — all along the Chinese-Soviet border. And ten squadrons of MiG-29s and MiG-25s. Right now that’s just where I want them. Those jets could be in Europe in four hours with or without air refueling, and our boys’ only hope over there is to hang on until we can resupply.” He paused, looking over at Trainor. “How far back now, Bill?”

“Ah, a withdrawal bulge forty miles west at Fulda, Mr. President, thirty miles into the Ruhr and—”

“Deep into Western Germany,” said Mayne. “Now, if we can’t stall them there, General, if we can’t hold till our convoys start pouring in men and material, then we’re up shit creek and we’ve lost Europe. I want you to tell Admiral Horton categorically that the Seventh Fleet must step in and if necessary attack any Taiwanese incursion — air, sea, or amphibious. Lin Zhou has promised me he’ll hold back if we do. He will not cease making public statements about imperialist aggression on our part. But so far, as supplies and men go, he will not reinforce North Korea so long as we hold the Taiwanese in reign. Quid pro quo.”

“Sir,” said Gray, “the Seventh Fleet is about to launch the amphibious attacks on North Korea. It will soon be dusk in the South China Sea.”

“What bearing does that have on the Taiwanese?”

“Mr. President, the fleet’s going to have its hands full clearing corridors for the airborne attacks without having to worry about—”

“General,” the president said, leaning forward, an edge to his voice, “when you people came to me with budgetary requests for updating the AEGIS system, you told me it would be worth it because we could see everything that was going on within a radius of three to four hundred miles.”

“That’s correct, Mr. President. All I’m saying is that at the moment our maximum concentration has to be on launching—”

“General, I will not be deterred from this course of action. The Seventh Fleet’s battle group was specifically designed to handle multiple targets and, if necessary, cross-referencing missions. Am I correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then let’s not start making excuses and get on with it.”

“Very good, Mr. President.”

“Jesus! Jesus!” railed Gray to Major Wexler on his way back to the Pentagon. “Always the goddamned same, isn’t it? You let a ‘peace’ president in and they start thinking they’re goddamned General MacArthur. My God—”

Wexler did not dare remind the general that the president of the United States was, after all, commander in chief.

“Mr. President,” Trainor said, “have you ever read Camus’s The Plague?”

“What—?” The president was holding his head, the fingers of his left hand strained as they massaged hard above his left eye. “I think so — why?”

“There’s a character who keeps writing an opening paragraph, and in his mind he keeps envisaging the editor receiving his manuscript and being so overwhelmed by it, the only thing the editor can do is stand up and say, ‘Gentlemen, hats off!’ Well, it’s hats off to you this evening. That bit about China — it’s brilliant. How did you ever—”

“I didn’t,” cut in Mayne. “Senator Leyland’s idea.”

“Oh—”

“That make it less impressive?” said Mayne, looking up.

“No, no, not at all. I mean at least you made the decision. You were for it.”

“Don’t worry about who gets the credit, Bill. Bring me a glass of water, will you? Two Empracet and two two-twenty-twos.”

“Lights out?” asked Trainor.

“Please.”

Trainor turned off the light and, walking over to the drapes, shut out the dawn.

Mayne was already seeing the aura: steps, covered in shimmering water, like the water that used to run down fish shop windows, and above it all the most beautiful emerald green he’d ever seen. It was a warning. If he didn’t hit it hard now with the codeine, Tylenol, and aspirin, the migraine could get a hold and put him out of action for hours. Sometimes he had nightmares of Trainor, giantlike, looking down at him, holding the pills, threatening: “If you don’t give me what I want, I’ll leak it.” Personally Mayne believed that his determination, the ability he’d developed to work despite the fierce headaches, made him capable of more endurance than most under stress. Marx had had the headaches. So did Ulysses S. Grant — the general so sick with one, he couldn’t sleep while waiting for Lee’s response to his surrender ultimatum.

Mayne tried to remember the last time he’d made love with his wife, Jean.

General Kim, his divisional headquarters now moved to Seoul, was pleased when Major Rhee, the interrogation officer from Uijongbu, brought him the names of the KCIA’s counterespionage chiefs in Taegu and Pusan, which he had gotten from Tae. But most important of all, Rhee brought a summons from Pyongyang for a personal conference between Kim and the NKA’s “dear and respected leader.”

The problem was that some ROK “bandits” had managed to cut communications between Kim’s divisional headquarters and Pyongyang, since the major had arrived, by blowing up one of the microwave relay discs on one of the hills leading down the Uijongbu corridor. This would soon be remedied, of course, but Kim was in a quandary. He had been summoned to Pyongyang, and it was essential, he told the major, that “our great and respected leader” be apprised of the situation — in particular the rapid rate of advance.