Cauldron

by Larry Bond

  Releasing his brakes, Tad pushed his own throttles forward, just a little more than he normally used for taxiing. The F-15 leapt forward, and as the hangar’s sides fell away, he saw that he’d guessed right. The major was setting a fast pace, with the first two planes of Blue flight already a hundred meters down the taxiway and accelerating. They were cleared directly onto the runway, and they were in the air a minute later, roaring higher into a clear morning sky.

  It would be a wonderful fight.

  CHAPTER 9

  Tidal Race

  NOVEMBER 15 — TEGEL INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, BERLIN

  Outlined by blinking beacons, passenger jets orbited slowly through Berlin’s gray, overcast skies — conserving fuel while traffic controllers held Tegel’s main runway open for an unscheduled, priority departure. The planes circled low over a city gripped hard by winter.

  Below them, a freezing north wind rippled across the white-capped Tegeler See and whined through trees planted between the lake and the airport. Driven by the wind, snow flurries whirled across concrete runways, spattering against passenger terminals and flat-roofed warehouses. Snowflakes carried far enough south vanished in the black, oily waters of the Hohenzollern Canal.

  The wind tugged at camouflage netting rigged over the tanks, personnel carriers, and antiaircraft guns deployed at intervals around Tegel. Some were stationed on the tarmac itself. Other armored vehicles occupied the landscaped grounds of nearby Rehberge Park — their turrets and guns aimed at high-rise apartment buildings and shops lining the field’s eastern fringe.

  The airport, like the rest of Germany, was still under martial law.

  More white and gray camouflage netting covered military helicopters parked around a maintenance hangar far away from the main terminal building. Their rotors were tied down against the wind. Several were shark-nosed PAH-2 tank killers, a joint French and German design manufactured by the Eurocopter consortium. The rest were troop carriers, UH-1D Hueys built by Dornier for the German Army. The Hueys were starting to show their age, but the ultramodern Eurocopter tilt-rotor troop transports that were supposed to replace them had been delayed by production and budget problems. Despite their country’s professed desire for all-European manufactures, Germany’s airborne troops and commandos were stuck using antiquated, American-designed helicopters. Few of them appreciated the irony in that.

  One other thing was certain. None of the soldiers waiting in ranks outside the hangar appreciated being kept out in the cold as an honor guard for dignitaries who were already late. Light gray service tunics, shirts and ties, black trousers, and red berets were no match for winter temperatures.

  Three Mercedes sedans drove across the tarmac and pulled up next to the hangar. Weapons rattled as the soldiers presented arms.

  Several officials got out of the cars and strode briskly past the shivering honor guard, walking fast toward a twin-engine executive jet visible just inside the hangar’s half-open doors. Two men led the way, talking intently. Plainclothes security men formed a protective phalanx around them.

  Nicolas Desaix was on his way back to France — homeward bound after his second quick trip to Germany in as many weeks.

  “You agree, then, Herr Chancellor? That the economic measures I’ve proposed are a necessary first step to closer, more formal cooperation between our two nations?” Desaix was insistent, eager for some sign of progress he could take back to Paris. He found the slow-motion processes of normal diplomacy maddening at a time when events were moving so fast.

  Heinz Schraeder turned his head toward the Frenchman. Germany’s Chancellor was tall enough to stand eye-to-eye with Desaix, but he carried far more weight on a much broader frame. Thinning black hair and a dour, fleshy face with massive jowls gave him a bulldog look. He nodded. “I agree, monsieur. My cabinet must concur, of course, but…” He shrugged. “They will fall in line.”

  He had reason to be confident. Brought to power by Germany’s prolonged economic woes and by a growing hatred of foreign refugees and immigrants, Schraeder’s control over the Bundestag, the Parliament, had rested on a paper-thin majority — a majority threatened by rising public discontent. But now martial law made public opinion immaterial.

  “Good. That’s very good. Then we shall have an agreement to sign the next time I see you.” Desaix sounded certain.

  The two men crossed into the neon-lit hangar, followed closely by their aides and bodyguards. Airport workers pushed the hangar doors all the way open behind them. A ground crewman wearing ear protectors already stood waiting on the tarmac outside, ready to guide Desaix’s aircraft out onto the runway. With traffic stacking up over the field, Tegel’s managers wanted to get their government’s guests into the air as quickly as possible.

  “A great pleasure, Herr Chancellor. As always. I look forward to our next meeting.” Desaix shook hands with the German leader and then hurried up a set of folding stairs into the jet. He turned and waved a final time before disappearing inside. His retinue of aides and guards followed him.

  Schraeder stood watching impassively as crewmen closed the French plane’s hatch.

  “An interesting man, Herr Chancellor. I can understand why you find him so charming.”

  “Charming?” Schraeder glanced sharply at the aide standing by his side. “On the contrary, Werner. I think he’s a smooth-tongued, manipulating swine.” He smiled at the younger man’s shocked expression. “But what I think of Desaix personally doesn’t matter. His ideas make sense. For us, not just for the French. And that is what matters.”

  He spoke with conviction. In his judgment, closer ties with France offered the best hope of creating a unified European political and military superpower — a superpower with German industrial might as its driving engine. Earlier attempts to unite the continent had foundered in a sea of conflicting national economic policies, currencies, and cultures. And, in retrospect, the whole idea of trying to create a closer-knit union under such circumstances had been ludicrous — doomed from the very beginning.

  The Chancellor snorted. Germany and France, powerhouses in their own right, should never have been expected to bend to whims of smaller, poorer countries. It was unnatural. No, he thought, the weak must follow the lead set by the strong. That was the only rational way to organize the continent. For all his faults, Nicolas Desaix shared the same vision.

  Torn by feuding ethnic groups and rival trading blocs, Europe needed order, stability, and discipline to take its rightful place in the world. And only France and Germany could provide the strong leadership Europe needed.

  Naturally Schraeder would have preferred that Germany alone occupy center stage in a united Europe. He was not a fool, though. The world’s memories of German militarism and the Third Reich were still too painful for that. Even the comparatively hesitant diplomatic and financial moves his country had made to regain its old influence in Central and Eastern Europe were viewed with strong suspicion. Working hand in glove with France, even letting Paris appear to take the lead, would help hold those suspicions in check.

  Heinz Schraeder nodded to himself. Since the end of World War II, a series of leaders from both nations had toiled fairly successfully to cool the long-standing antagonisms between their two countries. High-level contacts, joint military exercises, and continual affirmations of new friendship had all been employed by French presidents and German chancellors to accustom their peoples to working together. Now he and Desaix would reap the rewards of their hard labor.

  NOVEMBER 27 — ”EUROCURRENCY ON THE MOVE,”

  THE WALL STREET JOURNAL

  Financial and foreign policy experts were stunned by the announcement yesterday of French and German plans for rapid movement toward a single currency. Although details are still being worked out by central bank representatives from the two nations, French Foreign Minister Nicolas Desaix and German Chancellor Heinz Schraeder promised that the new franc-mark, or FM, would be in active circulation “by early next year.” The two men also hailed the accor
d as a crucial step toward a long-overdue European monetary union. Their optimism seemed justified by reports that officials in Belgium, Austria, Hungary, Croatia, Slovenia, and other Balkan states are all interested in the new currency.

  Earlier efforts to develop a common continental monetary system collapsed when the old European Community splintered over trade tariffs and subsidies.…

  DECEMBER 1 — ”SCREAMING EAGLES TO STONEHENGE,”

  INTERNATIONAL DEFENSE REVIEW

  Highly placed Pentagon sources have confirmed that elements of the 101st Airborne Division will participate in next year’s British Army summer maneuvers on the Salisbury Plain. Reportedly the rapid deployment exercise, code-named Operation Atlantic Surge, will involve two of the division’s three airmobile infantry brigades and a substantial portion of its attack helicopter, troop transport, and artillery assets. With more than thirty thousand U.S. Army and Air Force personnel taking part in the June exercise, Atlantic Surge will represent the largest American military effort in recent years.

  Congressional critics of the Defense Department are already decrying what one calls “a titanic waste of time and money.…”

  DECEMBER 11 — PALAIS ROYAL, PARIS

  Nicolas Desaix listened to his special ambassador’s report without interrupting. Only the tight, angry frown on his face revealed his growing agitation. Professional diplomats never seemed able to say anything plainly — especially when they knew their news wasn’t welcome.

  He waited impatiently for the man to run out of steam.

  “To summarize, sir, the Polish government has expressed an interest in further talks, although it is disinclined at this time to proceed with formal negotiations on the subject. Apparently Warsaw believes that internal political considerations must temporarily take precedence over other, broader concerns.”

  “They’ve turned us down.”

  The ambassador shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Admitting failure was not often a good career move in the foreign service. He forced an optimistic tone. “Not in so many words, Minister. And complicated matters of this kind often require prolonged consideration. I’m sure that further discussions will produce…” His voice trailed away under his superior’s icy glare.

  “Cut the crap, Bourcet. I know hot air when I hear it. Poland has rejected our offer out of hand.” Desaix’s fingers drummed on his desk as he waited for a reply. “Well? Am I right?”

  The other man nodded reluctantly. “Yes, Minister.”

  “Very well. You may go. But I’ll expect your written report on my desk by tomorrow morning. Make sure that it is complete and clear. I don’t have any more time to waste on fluff and nonsense.” Desaix turned his attention to the documents piled high in front of him, ignoring the special ambassador’s abrupt, red-faced departure.

  He made a mental note to have the man assigned to the next undesirable diplomatic posting that opened up. Somewhere as far from France as possible.

  Desaix didn’t mind the ambassador’s failure in Poland so much. After all, he’d more than half expected it. The Poles were too stiff-necked and too stupid to join the Franco-German monetary union voluntarily. What irked him most was Bourcet’s pointless attempt to disguise the truth by spouting a lot of meaningless gibberish.

  He could forgive a man who failed. He would not forgive a man who mistook him for a fool.

  Nicolas Desaix dismissed the matter from his mind in favor of a more immediate and important concern. Specifically the mulish resistance to the new European order he was trying to create.

  In the weeks since France and Germany reached agreement on a common currency, his emissaries had fanned out across the continent. Nations with economies in hock to either Paris or Berlin were reminded of that sad fact and urged to join the new monetary union. So far, all were bowing to the inevitable. Other countries, those aligned with the “free trade” bloc, had proved far less cooperative. One by one, they’d rejected the chance to change sides in the world’s ongoing trade war.

  Every refusal angered Desaix, but he found the Polish, Czech, and Slovak stance especially infuriating. Their stubborn adherence to national sovereignty and open markets encouraged agitators in other Eastern European countries who opposed closer ties with France. With American backing, they were becoming a rallying point for the anti-French sentiment slowly spreading through the region. And that made them dangerous.

  No one knew better than he how fragile the coalition he envisioned would be — at least during the first few months of its existence. The slightest setback or unexpected check might shatter it, leaving France even more isolated in a sea of hostile neighbors. It would take time to weld a confederation of unpopular, unelected governments into a strong, united whole. Polish, Czech, and Slovak intransigence threatened to rob him of that time.

  Desaix’s frown deepened. He could not allow that to happen. If political leaders in the three countries would not join a new European alliance voluntarily, they would have to be coerced. They’d either fold under pressure or find themselves abandoned by their own people.

  His sour expression disappeared, replaced by a narrow, unpleasant smile. The ignorant Poles and their southernmost neighbors might feel themselves secure behind their thin screen of American and British military aid. But he knew differently.

  He picked up a secure phone. “Put me through to the Russian Embassy. I want to speak with the ambassador himself.”

  JANUARY 21, 1998 — SECURE SECTION, U.S. EMBASSY, MOSCOW

  Alex Banich stuck his head inside the lioness’s den at her request. “You rang?”

  “Yep. Wait one, okay?” Erin McKenna spoke without looking away from her glowing computer monitor. Her fingers flashed across the keyboard parked in her lap, entering new data or making new demands on an already overtaxed system.

  “Sure.” Banich leaned against the doorjamb, folded his arms, and watched her work. He fought off a yawn.

  The Commerce Department analyst looked as tired as he felt. Her eyes were shadowed and bloodshot, the product of too many hours spent staring at tiny print and endless columns of figures. Even her long, auburn hair looked mussed. She sometimes wrapped her ponytail around her fingers when she thought no one was looking. He’d even caught her chewing isolated strands while she sat lost in thought, trying hard to piece together a coherent picture from fragments of fact, rumor, and pure guesswork.

  The months since Russia declared martial law had flown by in a dizzying, exhausting cycle of busy days and work-filled nights. The CIA’s Moscow Station had been understaffed and overworked even before Marshal Kaminov and his cronies made their move. Now, with personnel restrictions in place on all foreign embassies, and with all freedoms greatly restricted, things were even worse. Neither of them could waste time or energy arguing for the sheer, cussed joy of it.

  So, partly out of necessity and partly out of sheer fatigue, they’d negotiated an uneasy truce and a practical division of labor. Banich focused his efforts on the military and political side of the spectrum, while McKenna concentrated on trade and economic developments.

  So far at least, she had been more successful. Her contacts inside the Russian Ministries of Trade and Finance were civilians with a reformist streak who weren’t happy under military rule. They fed her a fairly steady stream of raw trade and economic data — some classified, some unclassified, and some just hard to find without help.

  Banich wasn’t as fortunate. He was being run ragged just trying to maintain his cover as Nikolai Ushenko without being bankrupted in the process. Backed by army decrees, the government ministries he supplied made constant demands for more food at below-market prices. These new price controls made it impossible for him to bargain for sensitive information. By wiping out his profit margins, they were also siphoning away the resources he needed to buy secrets from a corrupt few still willing to sell them.

  Still, he’d had a little luck recently. Like Erin, he’d made several promising contacts on the civilian side of the Russian government.
Even inside the Defense Ministry there were officials who despised the army’s heavy-handed attempt to reimpose Stalinist discipline and central planning. And there were persistent rumors that Russia’s President — now only a figurehead under constant GRU surveillance — still hoped he could regain effective control over his country.

  Banich dismissed those rumors as simple wishful thinking. Kaminov had relearned an old lesson of Russian politics: the one with the biggest guns governs. He and his fellow marshals were too firmly dug in to be ousted easily or bloodlessly. And with the West hopelessly divided against itself, there wasn’t any realistic prospect of sustained outside pressure for a return to democratic rule.

  Erin finished her typing with a final, triumphant stab at the keyboard, punched the print key, and slewed her chair around to face him. “Thanks. I needed to get some ideas down before they wandered off in a gray fog somewhere up here.” She tapped her forehead.

  “No problem.” He thought about straightening up and then decided against it. Leaning up against the door felt too good. “Now, what can I do for you? Kidnap the Minister of Trade? Swipe the Czar’s crown jewels? Or did you have something tougher in mind? Like talking Kutner into buying you a bigger computer?”

  The corners of her mouth tilted upward in a quick, amused smile. “Not exactly. Though those aren’t bad ideas.”

  She turned serious. “What I really need is your brain.”

  “Shoot.”

  Her tired eyes twinkled at that. “Sorry, I haven’t got a gun.” She ignored his groan. He wasn’t the only one allowed to make bad jokes. “Anyway, I think I’m starting to see a pattern in some of the data we’re collecting, but I need to bounce it off somebody to see if it makes any sense. Especially somebody who was born cynical.”

  “Meaning me, I suppose.”

  Erin nodded. “Meaning you.”

  “Okay.” Banich approved of her instincts. In this business it was all too easy to fall blindly in love with your own theories. That was dangerous, because those theories rested on evidence that was, almost by definition, piecemeal, uncertain, and often contradictory. A good intelligence officer was always willing to give someone else the chance to punch holes in a piece of prized analysis.