Vortex (72 page)

For the first time since the Cold War’s supposed end, the strategic interests of the Soviet Union were again opposed to those of the Western democracies.

Nicholson backed down and tried another angle.

“Then why not impose a blockade on Cuba? Cut off Castro’s ability to feed his troops and we end the war.”

“For the simple reason that they’re not being supplied from Cuba itself.

As you should know, Director.” For the first time that morning, Forrester showed his irritation openly.

“I assume you’re not proposing that we risk an even wider war by stopping Soviet merchant ships on the high seas?”

Wisely, Nicholson kept his mouth shut.

“In any event, even forcing a Cuban pullback would still leave us facing this nutcase Vorster.” Forrester grimaced.

“The President is absolutely convinced that we cannot guarantee the free flow of the minerals, and a stable international economy, without installing a democratic government of some sort in South Africa.”

He glared down the table toward the sullen, silent
CIA
chief.

“We’ve tried diplomatic pressures. They’ve failed. We’ve tried economic pressures. They’ve failed. And now we’re facing a situation that could wreck every economy from here to Tokyo. I’ll ask you this just one more time, Director Nicholson: What other option do we have?”

Silence.

“Right. None.” Forrester shifted his gaze toward the Joint Chiefs.

“Gentlemen, I think it’s time we started talking seriously about the use of military force. You’ve heard the President’s three objectives. Now I need to know what kinds of troops and hardware we’ll have to commit to achieve those objectives. His question created a stir among the Joint Chiefs as they talked among themselves for a moment or two.

Finally, General Hickman leaned forward.

“Mr. Vice President, one thing is very clear-the carrier battle group we’ve

got sitting off the South African coast can’t handle this on its own.”

Forrester nodded and motioned him on, knowing that Hickman and the other chiefs were talking the problem through out loud.

The Air Force general stared hard into space for several seconds and then glanced at his colleagues. Finally, he looked back at Forrester.

“Even sending another carrier battle group won’t do much good, sir. We’re going to need more than just air and sea power to impose our will on South

Africa. To do that, we’re going to need men on the ground-lots of them.

”

HEADQUARTERS
,
SECOND
MARINE
EXPEDITIONARY
FORCE
,
CAMP
LEJEUNE
,
NORTH

CAROLINA

Lt. Gen. Jerry Craig,
USMC
, squirmed in his chair as the briefer droned on and on. His intelligence officer, Col. George Slocomb, had pieced together a summary of the military situation in South Africa, but it wasn’t a straightforward military campaign. There were essentially three separate wars raging, all rapidly turning into one giant furball. Hard data on any of them was tough to come by.

Slocomb was trying to fill in the gaps by concentrating on South Africa’s confused political situation, but Craig was uncomfortable with that kind of stuff. He was a military professional-one ordinarily only too glad to leave politics to the “power tie” boys in Washington.

The general squirmed again, running his hand slowly through close-cropped red hair. It was impolite to go to sleep during a briefing you had ordered. Besides, South Africa was the hottest part of the world right now, and he had to know what was going on.

“General?” One of his aides leaned next to his ear.

“What?”

“Washington’s on the line, sir.”

Irritated at the interruption, Craig got up and walked over to a side table that held a phone. The lights came up and a low buzz of conversation started. His irritation faded, though, when he heard the voice on the other end.

“Jerry, this is Wcs Masters.” Craig knew Wesley Masters’s voice well. Two classes ahead of him at the Academy, Masters had served with him in several posts, fought with him near the
DMZ
in “Nam, and partied with him in some of the wildest ports in the world. Masters was also one of the few men in the Corps senior to him-the head honcho, in fact, commandant of the whole ever loving Marine Corps.

Craig automatically stiffened to attention.

“Yes, Commandant. What can I do for you?”

When his staff saw Craig’s response, all talking stopped as though it had been cut off by a switch, and every ear listened to Craig’s side of the conversation.

“Yes, sir, we’re as ready as ever. We’re prepping for Gold Eagle next month, but…

“Aye, aye, sir. I understand. ” Craig shook his head. Jumping Jesus. Had he heard that right?

“I’ll be there
ASAP
. I’ll radio my
ETA
to Andrews.

Goodbye, sir.”

Craig hung up the phone and turned to face his openly curious staff.

“Listen up, people. Drop everything in the plan of the day. Implement the recall bill and start preparations for embarkation.”

Jaws dropped all around the room. Well, he knew exactly how they felt.

He turned to his operations officer.

“Terry, call Cherry Point. I want a two-seat Hornet prepped with a pilot standing by in twenty minutes. I have to make a fast trip to Washington-real fast. And get my helicopter over here.”

Craig raised his voice slightly so that it would carry through the crowded room.

“When I get back, I want a meeting with every officer on the staff.

Everyone. Have a list of anything that might interfere with a fast embarkation.”

He smiled slightly, but there was a grimness to it.

“And it better be a very short list. ”

CHERRY
POINT
MARINE
CORPS
AIR
STATION
,
NORTH

CAROLINA

Craig barely noticed the helicopter ride to the Air Station. He spent the entire trip pretending to go over routine paperwork. Reading and signing trivial memos and authorizations helped him conceal an inner whirlpool of thoughts and emotions. Marines, generals especially, were not supposed to act like giddy schoolboys. And he’d been fighting to control his expression and his demeanor ever since the commandant’s phone call.

An order to embark was not given lightly, or routinely. It was only issued in a time of serious crisis, when the President’s list of options had shortened so much that using military force wasn’t just possible, it was probable.

It had to be South Africa. There were hot spots aplenty elsewhere, but the world’s only serious shooting war was going on down there. And

Masters had asked him to ready his entire expeditionary force! Not just a battalion or one of his two brigades. Whatever was up was big, and again that pointed to South Africa.

Combat in Africa. He shook his head. His Marine career had already included a lot of combat duty, always in godforsaken places nobody sane would ever want to live in, just fight over. But he’d never had the opportunity to command so many men in battle. At full strength, a Marine

Expeditionary Force could muster up to forty thousand sailors and

Marines, two hundred fighters and attack jets, four hundred -plus helicopters, and hundreds of tanks, light armored vehicles, and artillery pieces. In Craig’s admittedly biased view, it was the world’s most perfect combination of strategic mobility, firepower, and pure guts.

Just thinking about handling all that in the noise and confusion of battle was enough to make a man sweat bullets, Craig thought. You couldn’t just lead your boys forward in a head-on slashing attack. You had to know how to mass air, land, and sea power into a single, flexible whole. Still, he was ready for it-ready for anything. Or so he told himself.

During a long and distinguished Marine Corps career, he’d held a variety of staff assignments, not just troop commands. Every Marine officer, even the most gung ho, had to spend plenty of time commanding a desk. And his time at the Pentagon and at various duty stations around the world had shown him to be a good planner-a thinking soldier who never lost sight of the shortest, least costly route to the objective.

Despite what at times seemed an inordinate number of people shooting at him, Craig had stayed healthy and moved up the hierarchy, one slow rung at a time. Now he’d reached the penultimate step of his career-commander,

Fleet Marine Force Atlantic and commanding officer of the Second Marine

Expeditionary Force, one of only three such forces in the Marine Corps.

The general looked up as the helo came over Cherry Point Marine Corps Air

Station. He started packing up his paperwork. Once overhead, it took several more minutes to reach the flight line, a huge expanse of bare concrete bordered on one side by a row of boxy, metal-walled hangars. The runways themselves seemed like a study in perpetual motion. Of turboprop cargo planes taking off with supplies for carriers at sea. Of fighters practicing touch-and-gos in a howling roar of powerful engines. And over it all, the pervasive, biting tang of raw jet fuel.

His helo landed near a twin-tailed F/A-18 parked next to a grimy yellow starter cart. A long hose ran from the starter cart to the Hornet, blowing air into its jet engines to get their turbines spinning. A small group of men in camouflage uniforms came to attention as the engines stopped. They saluted Craig as he stepped out.

Leaving his briefcase for his aide, Craig returned their salutes and walked quickly over to the senior officer, a lieutenant colonel.

“Good afternoon, General. I’m Steve Walker, squadron commander.” He pointed to a lieutenant wearing flight gear.

“This is Tom Lyles, your chauffeur for this trip.”

Lyles was a short, stocky man with a broad, clean-featured face. Craig liked him immediately. Their eyes were on the same level.

He held out his hand.

“Lieutenant.”

An enlisted man ran up carrying a pile of flight gear, and they quickly fitted Craig with coveralls, g-vest, and a helmet. He noticed that there were several sets of equipment, all in different sizes, lined up on a nearby jeep.

As the sailor helped him lace up his g-vest, Craig asked, “How long a flight to Andrews?”

“About thirty minutes, sir. ” The young Navy flyer grinned at his surprised expression.

“We’ll be at Mach point nine five as soon as we get to altitude. ”

Though he did his best to hide it, Craig was impressed. Just driving from

Andrews to the Pentagon around Washington’s traffic-choked Beltway would probably take twice that long. In his case, though, another helicopter would carry him to the Pentagon.

His aide ran up.

“Your gear’s stowed in the baggage pod, General. ”

“Great.” Craig pulled the helmet onto his head.

“Signal my
ETA
to the commandant. And I’ll need another fast fide back after this meeting.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Ten minutes later, the Hornet roared off the runway, climbing fast on full throttle. At twenty thousand feet over the wooded Virginia countryside, Lyles leveled off. He kept his throttle shoved forward, though.

Most Navy pilots spend their lives computing flight profiles that give them the longest possible time aloft. Lyles evidently planned to make the most of a mission that let him fly almost as fast as he wanted to.

The Fighter roared on, boring a hole through the air at over six hundred knots. Craig’s mood soared along with the plane.

THE
PENTAGON

Craig strode briskly up the wide set of steps to the Pentagon’s River

Entrance, greeted by a forest of salutes snapped his way by officers and enlisted men coming and going through the set of double doors.

A Marine major hurried forward.

“General Craig, sir. Right this way.

They’re waiting for you downstairs.”

Craig had expected to go straight to the commandant’s office in the Navy

Annex, but had found himself deep inside the Pentagon instead-midway along a poorly lit basement corridor he’d never seen before. His guide stopped in front of an anonymous metal door.

“In here, General.”

The man punched in a four-number security code on a keypad and pulled the door open.

Hat under his arm, Craig stepped through into a wood paneled conference room, complete with a long mahogany conference table and beautifully upholstered furniture. Even the room’s utilitarian fluorescent lights had been tastefully enclosed.

His first glimpse of the men waiting for him wiped away any lasting impression of the room. He’d been expecting to see Wcs Masters, of course. But he sure as hell hadn’t expected to see a group that included the rest of the Joint Chiefs, the secretary of defense, and the Vice

President. He stopped dead in the doorway.

“Come on in, Jerry. Take a pew. ” Masters stepped around the table, shook

Craig’s outstretched hand, and steered him toward an empty chair.

Oh, boy. Although some of the glitter had worn off those in high places as he advanced in rank, Craig still found himself a little awed in such company. Here he was, the commanding general of a Marine expeditionary force-the absolute lord and master of nearly forty thousand men-and he was still the junior man present in this small, secret room. He wasn’t used to that.

Also, just what kind of orders was he going to get? There was an old rule in the Corps that the higher a job started, the tougher it got.

Wordlessly, he nodded to the assembled group and sat down.

Masters took the seat next to him and nodded to an Air Force officer standing near the wall.

“All right, Colonel.”

A projection screen slid down from the ceiling, and the lights dimmed.

For twenty minutes, Craig sat through another briefing on South Africa.

Though shorter than his G-2’s version, the data was a little more timely and a little more complete. Nevertheless, Craig made a mental note to tell