Shadows of steel pm-5 Page 9

  “A year!” Vice President Whiting exclaimed. “You’re exaggerating!”

  “I wish I was only trying to be conservative, Ellen,” Chastain said, “but I believe that’s an accurate assessment. At the end of the Cold War, we switched from a deployed counteroffensive force to a defensive expeditionary force—except that the money wasn’t spent on boring, low-tech things such as more cargo planes, container ships, and railroad cars. In addition, we’ve got fewer active-duty forces, and we pulled them out of overseas bases back to the U.S. We’ve got fewer soldiers, they’re farther from the Middle East, and we’ve got fewer transports to take them where they need to go. Bottom line, Mr. President: we plan on a year and hope for a miracle.” Everyone in the Cabinet Room was stunned into silence.

  They all remembered the buildup prior to the Gulf War of 1991; although the first American defensive forces had arrived in Saudi Arabia less than a day after the invasion of Kuwait, it had seemed it would take forever to build up to what could be called an offensive force. Even when Desert Shield had turned into Desert Storm, no one had been sure if they had enough men and equipment to do the job. It had been sheer luck—and they all knew it, although few dared admit it—that Saddam Hussein had decided not to press his attack on Saudi Arabia, Israel, and Turkey during the Coalition’s long mobilization, and that Coalition forces had had powerful, oil-rich friends with large military facilities. “What do we have over there right now, Arthur?” Martindale asked.

  “We’ve got a token force over in the Persian Gulf region right now,” Chastain replied. He quickly scanned his briefing notes, his shoulders visibly slumping as he read: “One carrier group currently within striking distance of Iran; one F-16 attack wing and one F-15 fighter wing in Saudi, just forty planes and one thousand men; three Patriot anti-missile and antiaircraft companies, split up between Kuwait, Saudi, and Turkey, plus one training company in Bahrain and one training company in Israel; one bomber wing in Diego Garcia. A total of about fifteen thousand troops—a trip-wire force, nothing more.

  “Everyone else is stateside, and I mean stateside—we have one fourth of the troops deployed in Asia and Europe now that we did in 1990,” Chastain continued. “The air units could set up rapidly in Saudi, Israel, or Turkey—if the Iranians haven’t destroyed the big Saudi bases, or if Turkey doesn’t prohibit combat forces from staging there, like they tried to do in 1991—but we can’t count on any ground forces for several months because we don’t have the same size forces forward-deployed in Europe or Asia. Most of our infantry and heavy-armor units would deploy from North America—that would take them an extra four to six months to get to the Middle East. Our sea and air supply bridges will need some time, perhaps six full months, to come up to full capacity. And, of course, there’s no easy land bridge to Iran—we can’t deploy to an allied country and roll across a flat desert at high speed to get to Iran, like we could against Iraq …”

  “If I may interject here, Mr. President,” Jeffrey Hartman said, “but as distasteful as this may sound, it appears as if we have an even trade—we shot up their island, they shot up our spy ship. I don’t believe we are on the verge of war here. Iran is flexing its muscles, to be sure, but the entire world knows that the Khomeini battle group is a paper tiger.

  “Mr. President, General Freeman, I know losing even one man is hard, but I don’t believe that this is a prelude to war, nor should we make it so. After all, we started this mess by bolstering the Peninsula Shield attack mission. The loss of those ISA agents was tragic, but we took a gamble and we lost. We should just back off and let everyone cool down. We stirred up one big hornet’s nest, Philip.”

  “Maybe someone should have taken care of the nest before it got so big that it threatened all the neighbors,” Freeman retorted. “The only mistake we made was letting the GCC fight our battle for them.”

  “So we should’ve sent in a bombing raid on Abu Musa Island?”

  Hartman asked. “We should’ve bombed that Iranian island? We’d be the bullies then, General.”

  “Instead, we’ve lost a major intelligence-collecting vessel,” Freeman pointed out, “and Iran will just park their carrier task force in the Strait of Hormuz and rebuild the missile systems on that island. Do we dare sail a carrier into the Gulf, Jeffrey?

  What will we have to concede to Iran so we get a guarantee that they won’t attack the carrier group?”

  “They are not going to attack our carriers, Philip,” Hartman said, shaking his head. “This whole thing is a non-issue, General. We back off, let them rant and rave, and things will be back to normal. We’ve sailed a dozen carrier battle groups past those Iranian military bases in the Persian Gulf and the Strait of Hormuz over the past few years, and the Iranians have ignored us.”

  Freeman didn’t continue the argument, and that surprised President Martindale, who studied his National Security Advisor for a moment in silence. In the previous administration, Philip Freeman had been the long-suffering Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, a lone voice urging a definitive, hard-hitting military policy in a White House that had seemed very reluctant to use military force. Before that, he’d been one of the main engineers of the Pentagon’s “Bottom-Up Review,” or BUR, a comprehensive review of U.S. military doctrine that was supposed to decide the future of the military forces for the next twenty-five years.

  Freeman was a true visionary—even Martindale, leader of the political opposition at the time, had recognized it. Freeman knew that America was done fighting grand intercontinental World War III-scale wars. No longer were nuclear weapons and massive armored columns streaking across the European countryside—or even the Arabian deserts—guaranteed to win wars; in fact, Freeman had written, the nukes and the big, slow, resource-draining weapons systems were sapping the life out of the U.S. military. Speed was life. Wherever and whenever America was threatened, America had to respond rapidly, with the application of accurate, deadly—but not necessarily massive—firepower. Hit and Rit. Shoot and scoot. It wasn’t necessary to flatten the entire battlefield to cripple an enemy’s ability to make war—every little cut, every little break weakened him. Philip Freeman had showed why America didn’t need thirty bases in Germany or ten bases in England or eight bases in Japan or fifteen carrier battle groups. Global reach and global power could allow America, with proper funding and support from Congress, to fight two MRCs—major regional conflicts, Desert Storm-sized wars—and win, even with fewer forces.

  But Freeman had seen his hard work and dedication to duty go to waste, as the best military machine in the world crumbled around him due to a lack of funding and, more important, a lack of strong leadership. The White House and Congress had taken the BUR cuts and effectively doubled them, reasoning that if America could win two Desert Storms with 20 percent fewer forces, it could win one Desert Storm and hold another enemy at bay with 40 percent fewer forces. Congress seemed totally out of control: bases that the Joint Chiefs thought were useless but were located in areas popular with lawmakers were given added funding, while vital logistical and construction bases in major cities with a large civilian payroll were closed.

  Foreign-policy disasters had frustrated Freeman as did domestic affairs. He had been deeply hurt after the deaths and public disfigurement of eighteen U.S. soldiers in Somalia, especially since the Somali warlord responsible for the humiliation was not only still breathing, but being flown around by United Nations officials. He had been angry and frustrated over the deaths of U.S. and allied peacekeepers in Bosnia; he had been professionally frustrated when Congress wouldn’t budget enough money even for the greatly scaled-down BUR military, He’d seen the U.S. military being sucked into a Vietnam-like quagmire in Bosnia, and seen belligerent Iran, North Korea, and China growing in military strength while the United States was constantly scaling back. War fighting was out, and peacekeeping was in—and to a soldier’s soldier like Freeman, it was like stepping into a boxing ring wearing handcuffs.

  It had been obvious to presidenti
al candidate Kevin Martindale that these perceptions were tearing Philip Freeman apart. In official press conferences, even a casual observer could tell that Freeman appeared hamstrung by inaction; after his retirement, he’d become almost a recluse. When he emerged from his Billings, Montana, ranch to address a graduation or conference—he’d rarely done press interviews after his Pentagon days—many ‘in the nation, including Martindale, eagerly wanted to hear what he had to say.

  And it was that way right now. Philip Freeman’s abrupt silence meant that he had a plan, and Martindale couldn’t wait to hear it—but first there was much to do. “I don’t hear a firm consensus here, folks, so why don’t we put this on the back burner for a short while. I want everybody to gather some more data. We have to know for sure what we’re dealing with. Anything more for me?” They tossed around more ideas and issues, then the meeting broke up. “A word with you for a see, Phil,” the President said. When everyone else except Vice President Ellen Whiting had departed, the President motioned them both to a chair at the coffee table, and they sat informally.

  “Talk to me, Phil,” the President ordered. “What’s on your mind?”

  “The Iranians could do it, sir,” Freeman said. “Do what?”

  “Close off the Persian Gulf. They’ve got the advantage of substantial land-based air assets, a pretty good air defense network to protect against cruise-missile attack, and a million-man standing army battle-hardened and ready to fight—plus they’ve got a beefed-up navy, including an aircraft carrier battle group that has the potential to mount a pretty good attack on the Lincoln carrier group. The intangibles are a pretty sophisticated chemical and biological warfare capability and possibly an advanced nuclear weapons program, far more better network of regional and world allies, including China, North Korea, nd possibly many Muslim nations such as Syria, Libya, Pakistan, even Turkey—all of whom could make lots of trouble for us elsewhere in the world, possibly opening up a ‘second front,’ if you will.”

  “So this could turn into another Desert Storm-type conflict very easily?”

  “Yes, but our response would be far more difficult,” Freeman said.

  “And not only for the reasons I’ve cited before. Imagine no sea access to the Persian Gulf—all military supplies flown in or sent via road or rail from the Red Sea. Saudi bases and oil fields under attack by Iranian bombers. There would be no direct land invasion of Iran—all amphibious or airborne assaults, similar to D-Day operation—and Iran is three times larger and hillier than Iraq, so the war would probably be longer and much more difficult.”

  “We’re looking at an air war, then,” the President said. “A total air war.”

  “Possibly a total bomber war right from the start,” Freeman agreed, “until we got control of the skies, got the carrier battle groups close enough to safely start bombing missions, and secured forward bases in Saudi and Turkey.

  If Saudi Arabia or Turkey are denied us, the closest bomber staging base might be Diego Garcia, several hundred miles away—and the Iranians can even hold Diego Garcia at risk with their long-range bombers.”

  “Jesus,” the President muttered, shaking his head. He held up his hands, as if imploring God for an answer. “Why is this happening?” he asked. “Why does Iran want to do this?”

  “I’m praying they don’t want to do this, sir,” Freeman replied.

  “I believe General Buzhazi, the commander of all Iranian military forces and commander of their Revolutionary Guards, is calling the shots now. He was embarrassed by the GCC’s attack on Abu Musa and probably frustrated by Nateq-Nouri’s moderate anti-military stance, so he’s got the ear of the reactionary clerics. But the mullahs don’t have the power they did in the eighties. If Nateq-Nouri can retain control of the government, this thing can blow over, just like Jeffrey said. But if Buzhazi takes charge—a coup, martial law—we’re in for a tough time.”

  “There are a lot of pretty big ‘ifs’ in there, General,” Whiting interjected. “Any rash action on our part to counter the Iranian threat could make a lot of these ‘ifs’ come true, like a self-fulfilling prophecy. Let’s be careful what we’re forecasting.”

  The President nodded his understanding, then paused to consider Freeman’s and Whiting’s words. “So what are your recommendations?”

  “Arthur can make specific military recommendations from the Joint Chiefs, sir,” Freeman said, “but I see two things we need to do immediately: move readiness of the bomber fleet up a notch or two, and get some more eyes and maybe some hitting power in the area.

  I recommend the following: stand up Strategic Command and give them some assets to put on alert in case we need to respond immediately.”

  “That’s precisely what I’m afraid will escalate this thing, General!” Whiting interjected.

  “Wait a minute, Ellen,” the President said, “I’ll buy that recommendation, as long as it’s done quietly and carefully.”

  Strategic Command was responsible for planning and fighting a nuclear conflict. Normally, it had no weapons, only computers and analysts—it took an Executive Order to give it the bombers, subs, and missiles from other military commands. Except for simulations, Strategic Command had never “gained” any weapon systems in its six-year history. That was about to change Talk it over with Defense. Not too much, and all done very quietly—a few bombers, a few subs, perhaps a few Peacekeeper missiles. Bring them up slowly, separately, so it doesn’t look like a mobilization, preferably tied into scheduled exercises.”

  “Agreed,” Freeman said.

  “As for your other recommendation … you have something specific in mind,” the President surmised. “Spill it.”

  “It has to do with certain operations in your old administration, sir,” Freeman said warily. The President shifted uncomfortably but nodded, allowing Freeman to go on. “Time after time—over Russia, in the Philippines and the South China Sea, over Belarus and Lithuania, Central America, even over the United States—something happened. An invasion force was neutralized, a heavily protected base or enemy stronghold was mysteriously smashed. I know our regular military guys didn’t do it; our allies say they didn’t do it. I have an idea who did, but I tried to talk to some of the key players several weeks ago, and they weren’t talking. You have some very loyal friends out there, sir.”

  “I heard you had been asking questions,” Martindale said. He turned away, then stood up and began to pace the Oval Office. He stopped and stared at one of the rounded walls, his hands behind his back. “Bill Stuart … Danahall … O’Day … Wilbur Curtis … oh, God, Marshall Brent, my old teacher …” He fell silent, then turned toward his advisers. “Hell, I feel guilty because I haven’t thought about them more, haven’t had time to pick their brains and have them give me their wisdom and imagination”

  “Mr. President, you used these people because they were the best, because they knew how much your administration wanted peace but wanted to stop aggression. You wanted to control the escalation of the conflict, because any other response could have led to World War Three.”

  “World War Three … shit, Brad Elliott … HAWC … Old Dog …” The President turned, a wry smile creeping across his face.

  He rubbed the back of his neck, then appeared embarrassed to be doing so. “Just thinking about that old warhorse and what he might be up to makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

  You have any idea how much sleep that bastard cost me, worrying about what might happen if one of his cockamamie ideas blew up in our faces? Christ, I’m sure he took ten years off my backside.

  You thought of this several weeks ago, before the crisis?”

  “A fight with Iran has been looming for many years, since Desert Storm and Iran’s military buildup after the war, sir,” Freeman said. He saw the President nod in silent agreement. “We had to be ready if Iran, or North Korea, or China struck.”

  “You two have lost me,” Ellen Christine Whiting interjected. “I know General Curtis, and General Elliott when
he was with Border Security, and I’m familiar with most everyone you’ve mentioned in the old administration, and Marshall Brent, of course—he was the greatest, the reincarnation of Abraham Lincoln himself—but I’ve never heard of HAWC or this Old Dog. And what’s all this got to do with Iran?”

  “Ellen, back in the midst of the Cold War and the turmoil in the Soviet Union and China, we didn’t want to do anything to upset the superpowers, our allies, or the American people,” the President explained. “We had a military research unit called HAWC-hell, I don’t even remember what it stood for, probably some string of military-sounding words just so the acronym came out cool and tough—commanded by Brad Elliott, way before his stint with the Border Security Force. He had a small to medium budget, buried so deeply in the Air Force budget that I think everyone mistook it for a warehouse or a military band or something. It was always getting slashed, and that bastard would march up to the Pentagon and scream and holler and jump on desks until we gave him a few bucks more just to shut him up.

  “Anyway, Elliott and his staff could take a piece-of-shit plane like a B-52 bomber and make it dance,” the President went on, so excited with his reminiscing that he found himself talking with his hands, something he rarely did. “Elliott was building stealth bombers years before the B-2A; he was playing with TV-guided bombs and small satellites and brilliant search-and-destroy cruise missiles years before Desert Storm, even before most experts in the Pentagon ever heard of them. He was so good … the stuff he turned out was so reliable, so effective, that we … used them a few times.

  “You what?” the Vice President asked incredulously. “Used them … as in, sent them off to war?”