by Ian Slater
His hands holding the highly polished brass rail that girded the control room’s attack center, Robert Brentwood’s lean frame bent forward, his deep-set brown eyes concentrating on the computer screen directly in front of him. Checking that all missiles were ready for launch, he held his key ready to click into the MK-98 firing control system, the weapons officer waiting below, the black flexi-hose trailing snakelike behind him from the plastic red firing grip in his hand, his thumb now on the transparent protector cap, ready to flip it up and depress the red button. Six times.
Only Brentwood, his executive officer, weapons officer, and three vitally positioned crewmen could now tell, from the last number-for-letter variation in the code, that this time Brentwood would not have to insert the key and complete the circuits, it being judged absolutely imperative by the president and the chief of naval operations that a crew should not know when it was a WSRT — weapons systems readiness test drill — until the final seconds, if they were to maintain the razor-edge efficiency needed to defend their country in the time of “maximum peril.”
The trouble with this, as Robert Brentwood had often discussed with his younger brother Ray, was that after a high alert, the natural reaction for the crew was to relax. This could be the greatest danger of all.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
The red row houses flashing by, their brick a contrasting blur against autumn-stripped trees and fields of England’s farmland, combined with the rolling rhythm of the Glasgow-London express, lulled Robert Brentwood to sleep.
After the tension-filled months of war, he found it a joy to simply sit back and watch the countryside and the towns of England passing by. There was the ever-present danger of a Russian fighter/bomber surge trying to break through the British and American circle, but their main targets were the big ports down on the Channel coast. If the Russians did break through, the Royal Air Force’s inner defenses were augmented, like the U.S. Marine Corps, with the Harrier, originally built as a close-support and reconnaissance aircraft, but which, since the first few weeks of war, had played such a vital role as defender and ground support in Europe that its status had now gone beyond its post-Falklands reputation as a good all-around aircraft. Its very name now elicited near-awed response, from pilots and civilians alike, a status that had been accorded only the Spitfire and Hurricane in World War II and, in the 1950s, the American Sabre in Korea.
But while the success of the Harrier against the Russian-Warsaw Pact air forces was now being discovered and talked about by the British public during a period in which both sides were digging in and resupplying, the plane’s success had long been predicted by a “difficult,” by which the English mean “eccentric,” fifty-year-old classics teacher. Guy Knowlton, Ph.D., of Balliol College, Oxford, had also predicted, after his excavations during the summer “hols” before the war, that the probability of a modern war going on longer than anyone had predicted was indeed very high. Masses of men, their psyches savaged by the speed and devastation of high-tech mobile war, said Dr. Knowlton, would simply be unable to sustain the momentum. As they dug in, waiting for overextended supply lines to catch up with them, the trenches, said Knowlton, would become “a coveted place.” The soldiers, as soldiers had done since the beginning of time, would discover anew that a trench, quite apart from being far more preferable than open-ground warfare, was a place where the hitherto unobtainable luxury of a hot meal, instead of C rations on the move, settled into a predictable routine. It was something the generals abhorred, for wherever men began putting up signs such as “No Vacancy,” “Pete’s Place,” and mile markers to their homes, from Scotland to New York, troops became increasingly reluctant to get up and leave.
No NATO commander was foolish enough to think the war would remain static very long — that there could be any return to the kind of massive, wasteful trench warfare of the First World War. But the longer the trenches remained lived-in, the more difficult it would be to move men quickly when the present falloff in hostilities heated up again. It was rumored, as Robert Brentwood had heard in Holy Loch, that a “deal” had been struck through Swiss mediators between the USSR and NATO to the effect that no nuclear weapons would be used. Whether this was true or wishful thinking, no one was sure. If it was true, then given the enormous gain in territory by the Russians at NATO’s expense — almost all of Germany, northern Holland, and the low countries — it was inconceivable that NATO would now simply return to a cease-fire if the Russians did not agree to give the captured territories back.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
“Anyone who believes the Communists will let us have any of that territory back is a dreamer,” General Freeman proclaimed to the clutch of White House press photographers and reporters crowding around him after the president had pinned on the general’s Medal of Honor. The general saluted solemnly then raised both arms in a victory sign to show his well-wishers that his wounded arm was back in service.
Harold Schuman, as the president’s national security adviser, was not pleased with Freeman’s off-the-cuff remarks. The Medal of Honor, in his view, brought you respect — it didn’t make you an authority on the delicate matter of diplomatic maneuvering, especially when Moscow and Beijing might interpret the general’s words, at such a high-profile event with the president, as official U.S. policy.
“But it is our policy, isn’t it?” the president challenged Schuman when the general had left. “I certainly don’t intend spilling American blood to defend Germany, then turn around and tell Moscow it can have whatever it overruns. I’m certainly in no mood to ‘stabilize’ the position ‘as is,’ as someone at State said last night. The United States alone,” Mayne reminded Schuman, “has lost twenty-five thousand troops in this war. The very worst thing to do in my view is to give any impression to the Russians, or anyone else for that matter, that we’re about to seriously consider redrawing the map of Europe on their terms. Why — it would make a mockery of what we’ve been through. Those boys would haunt us from their graves.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” put in Trainor. “These are bullyboy tactics from beginning to end. Carve up half of Europe and then say you’re willing to talk. Personally, I’d tell them to shove it.”
“I’ve no doubt you would,” said Schuman tartly. “But we must never close the door to negotiations.”
“Agreed,” said the president, “but this isn’t the time, Harry. First we want the NKA north of the old DMZ, where they belong. And we need the European border where it was.”
“Well,” mused Schuman, “as far as Korea goes, it seems now we’re in better shape than anyone had a right to expect.”
“Because,” interjected Trainor, “we gave Freeman — if you’ll pardon the pun — a free hand there, Mr. Schuman. And State ought to realize that. Only thing those jokers understand in the Kremlin is the fist.”
“You’re beginning to sound like General Freeman,” said Schuman in a slightly disapproving tone. “I hope it isn’t contagious.”
“Well, he did one hell of a job over there, Mr. Schuman. You can’t deny that. We could do with a few more like him in Europe.”
“It’s a much different war in Europe,” said Schuman.
“How?” Trainor challenged him, suspecting that the national security adviser’s comments about Freeman were motivated more from envy of the general’s sudden celebrity than from any sound military consideration.
“We don’t need cowboys in Europe, Mr. Trainor.”
The president held up his hand for an end to the disagreement. He was due for a meeting with the Joint Chiefs, and he intended to bring the matter of Freeman up there. Formerly the president’s title of commander in chief was viewed by the vast majority of American people as a more or less honorary title until he was actually involved in the direction of some military action. In having taken the responsibility of giving the green light for the Pyongyang raid, his stocks were now high, and he intended using them as bargaining chips with the Joint Chiefs. In the president’s view
, Freeman’s raid had done infinitely more than turn around the position in Korea and raise American morale and status all around the world in perhaps its darkest time since the Cuban crisis.
Freeman, as far as the president was concerned, had overnight established a new battlefield code of conduct, showing what Mayne called “armchair video” commanders that in a rapid and highly fluid, high-tech mobile war, perhaps more than ever a commanding officer needed HUMINT — human intelligence — to get away from HQ and “go on the point.” Precisely because of all the gizmology available, a commander ought to get out of the claustrophobic, noisy push-button world of divisional HQ tents and get into the thick of the fighting himself, just as some of the fighter pilots had found out that for all the benefits of instrument flying, sometimes it was necessary to simply shut off all the “incoming” buzz and use their eyes.
* * *
On this October day, however, with southern England flashing by, Robert Brentwood was one commanding officer who wanted to forget the war, and had it not been for Lana’s letters and the tape she had sent to him from the Spence boy, he might have succeeded. He certainly would not have been on the 10:00 a.m. Glasgow to Victoria Station had he not read her letters, beginning with the last one she had posted. Now she had been posted to some “godforsaken rock,” as she called it, the name of the rock carefully erased by the censor. It could have been anywhere, from Gibraltar to the Galapagos.
Robert was struck by the change in her tone. The self-centeredness of the beautiful coed and the bitterness of her failed marriage alike were conspicuous now by their absence. Instead she talked to her older brother about the terrible ordeal of Ray, of the Spence boy and how it had brought her closer to her three brothers. The war, she wrote, had not diminished her own worries, which she’d hoped it would, for despite common wisdom, she’d found that other people’s troubles, worse though they may be, had not helped put her own “into perspective.” That kind of thing, she discovered, was only a “short fix.” Talking of fixes, she asked Robert whether it was true that many of the pilots were being given — the censor had crossed the word out, but she obviously meant amphetamines. “Yes, they are,” would have been his answer.
After a long letter about Ray, her next had been almost exclusively about the Spence boy, not as a lover, Robert could see, though in matters of the heart he regarded himself as woefully deficient. She went on to tell him that if the war had taught her anything, it was that morale was often more potent than penicillin, that with a purpose before you, you could brave all kinds of horrors that normally would prove too much. Which is what had surprised her so much about William Spence’s death. Unlike some of the smart-ass profs who were against the war and were 4-Fs and knew they wouldn’t be called up, the young sailor had recognized that this was a war NATO and the United States had to win, that at the very best, it was good against evil. At the very worst, no matter what the deficiencies of NATO countries, there was a vast difference between a regime that could knock your door down and take you away in the early hours of the morning and a regime that was required to show good cause. Which was why, she told Robert, she had thought that William Spence, filled with old-fashioned love of country, family, would pull through. But then no one, including herself, had seen that “old hag,” pneumonia, creeping up, just sitting there, knitting, patiendy rocking in the savage corner. Waiting.
It had made her even more worried about Ray. Apparently he’d gone into a funk until some admiral from La Jolla had visited him and told him straight that if he was going to go into a damn sulk over it and not see his kids, he might as well make himself useful — OD and clear the bed for somebody who needed it.
Some of the fighter pilots, she said, who were coming in were experiencing what they call “electronics burn” the result of an intense spitting kind of fire that came from all the high-tech, lightweight, but highly inflammable consoles they’d stuffed into the cockpits. Anyway, apparently Ray had had his sixth plastic surgery operation and had seen the kids. Everyone had a good cry, “according to Mom,” and Ray had started to make noises about sea duty, though that would certainly be a long way off if not out of the question. Maybe some form of support ship, a tender, spare parts or something. Mom was all in a flap because she’d just heard that young David was in for some kind of decoration.
Lana didn’t know, though, whether it was such a good idea for Ray to try and get back in the navy. “Knowing Ray,” she’d written, “he’ll probably be worse than—” she couldn’t think of the name “—the man played by James Cagney in ‘Mr. Roberts’—you know, the old grump who kept losing his palm trees.”
“Anyway, Bob,” she ended, “if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last two years, from Hong Kong to this godforsaken rock, it’s that love is all that matters and you should give it wherever you can. Hopefully you’ll get some back before we’re all blown to Kingdom Come.”
Robert Brentwood had read all the letters at Holy Loch and, as per her instructions, had run the tape forward a little so Mr. and Mrs. Spence wouldn’t fret about not hearing anything for the first few minutes. Robert had waited to push the “stop” button, not wanting to intrude in any way on the boy’s private thoughts to his family. But the tape was silent. It had come via fleet mail quickly enough, and Brentwood guessed the security and bomb people had done their job — the package going through X ray, and with it, the dead boy’s last message to his folks.
Under the circumstances, and seeing that he had two weeks to fill, Robert thought that the least he could do was visit the boy’s folks. Before going to Waterloo and catching a train down to Surrey, he had called into Marriage’s bookstore. The same manager in Harris tweed who had taken his order several months before had just finished serving a customer when he looked up and saw Brentwood walking in. The manager beamed. “Welcome back, Captain.”
Suddenly throughout the whole store, from the paperback section atop the old spiral iron staircase down to the hardcovers on the main floor, the staff and customers broke into applause. Brentwood looked around to see who they were all clapping for, and blushed like an afterburner when he realized it was him. It was the convoys — they were starting to get through, the convoys without which the British would die, let alone Europe, and the guardians of the convoys were in good standing with the people of Britain.
The manager, Mr. Harris, was quite definite about refusing payment, handing Brentwood a mint-new copy of Bing.
“No, look, I’d like to—” protested Brentwood.
“No, old man. Least we can do.” Everyone from assistants to the unloading clerk had gathered to welcome the American captain.
“Have you time for tea, Captain?” someone asked.
“Why — er — I’ve got to be getting up to Oxshott.”
The manager was so tickled by the occasion, he couldn’t bring himself to correct the American, but he did ring British Rail and ask them what time the next train down to Oxshott was. Eleven p.m.
While they were having tea and biscuits, someone brought in a dolly with a carton of at least fifty paperbacks for the officers and crew of Brentwood’s ship. The manager saw the captain of the most deadly armed ship in history looking rather nonplussed.
“Not to worry, Captain. We’ll have them sent to your ship. You won’t have to carry them about.” There were a few giggles and polite laughs. “If you’ll just give me an address?”
Robert, as security demanded, gave him the U.S. naval P.O. box in Glasgow. Overcome by the warmth, especially after he’d been told so much about the reserved British manner, Brentwood almost forgot to take Bing with him.
After tea, there was a pub dinner: pickles, Scotch eggs, and several pints of black Guiness, their brown, creamy heads flowing like velvet down the captain’s dry throat. Another pint later, Brentwood asked, “Mr. Harris — can I ask you a straight question?”
“Fire away, old boy.”
“This gal — young lady, young British lady — was rather upset with me at a part
y. Said I was ‘worse than Bing Crosby.’ You know what she meant?”
“Hmm,” said Harris, who was swirling the final ration of Guiness. “Weren’t singing, were you?”
“No,” answered Robert. “No, I wasn’t.”
“Romancing then, was it?”
“No — well, I mean, she was kind of annoyed that I wouldn’t—”
“Ah—” Harris leaned over to the barman. “Fred — haven’t any of the rough red left, have you?”
“ ‘Fraid not, Mr.’Arris. I’ve got a liter of Old Espagnol, though.”
“Dry, is it?” Harris inquired about the sherry, Brentwood thinking he’d forgotten completely about his question.
“Mr. ‘Arris,” said the barman, “if this stuff was any drier, it’d make your ‘air fall out — eyebrows, too, most likely.”
“How much?” asked Harris, forehead furrowed, ready for a shock. He got it.
“A century.”
“Oooh—” said Harris, his head coming back from the bar. “Oh dear—”
“Best I can do, Squire,” said the barman. “Rationing and all.”
