Cauldron

by Larry Bond

  “We heard that same estimate three days ago, Admiral. Have the Poles found themselves some new savior who can make diesel fuel out of water and tank shells out of stones?” Nicolas Desaix spoke softly, with just enough of an edge to cut into Gibierge’s briefing. His acid tone invited, almost demanded, that the admiral respond.

  Gibierge shook his head doggedly, knowing that Desaix despised servile cowardice even more than he disliked being contradicted. “No, Foreign Minister. But the bad weather moving through Poland over the past forty-eight hours has reduced the tempo of all military operations, reducing consumption of critical supplies.”

  Several of the uniformed men seated at the table nodded sagely.

  Gibierge had many supporters in the ministry. He was a professional, heir to centuries of French military tradition. Rumor had it that he was an arrogant bastard, sure of his abilities, but a competent one nevertheless. The admiral shared Desaix’s vision for France, but he was only one of thousands that did so.

  “In addition, we believe the Poles have been stripping supplies and spare parts from their divisions still stationed along the border with Belarus. Naturally those expedients can only be taken so far. Poland’s armed forces will soon reach the end of their logistical rope.”

  He left carefully unmentioned the fact that the German and French divisions already deep inside Poland were experiencing their own supply problems. The admiral would let the generals take the heat for their own errors.

  Impatiently Desaix nodded and waved the admiral on.

  Gibierge returned to his notes. “Present enemy strength includes the entire U.K.-based Royal Navy and Air Force, minus a few planes and small ships that we have already accounted for in action. In addition, the United States has now moved four combat wings and at least two carrier battle groups into the area.” He looked up. “Human intelligence also indicates that advance elements of the American 101st Airborne Division have arrived in England. Other, heavier American divisions are said to be mobilizing or heading for ports of embarkation.”

  The admiral frowned. “In short, gentlemen, if the enemy succeeds in opening the surface line of communication through the Baltic to Gdansk, we can expect American ground troops and supplies to pour in. Details are on page four of your briefing books.”

  Several men glanced down at the books lying open in front of them. Each of the principals at this meeting had been provided with a bound notebook, labeled “Top Secret” — full of maps, statistics, and other supporting information. No video or computer screens would intrude on the antique splendor of this room. The printed page was much more tasteful.

  The rest looked at the admiral expectantly, waiting for him to go on.

  “I believe that the Americans and the British, these so-called Combined Forces, have been husbanding their strength — hoarding their ships and planes until they can mount a strong challenge to our control of the Baltic.” He paused. “That time has arrived.

  “We have already seen the opening phases of their developing attack. British antisubmarine patrols have been strengthened in the North Sea. We know that American submarines have probed along our coasts. We have also seen a marked upsurge in enemy surveillance flights.” Gibierge was into the rhythm of the briefing now. Even Desaix seemed less impatient.

  “When they do attack, we don’t expect anything subtle. They don’t need it. Their strike aircraft outrange ours. They have a greater variety of assets, including cruise missiles and stealth aircraft, which we will find very hard to stop. In some areas, such as submarines, they outclass us in both numbers and individual unit quality.” The admiral hammered each of his points home with a forceful, certain tone. It was essential that he make these men understand the difficulties facing the Confederation’s naval and air forces. Only then could they be persuaded to make the difficult and dangerous decision needed for victory.

  “There is little point in further Confederation naval operations in the North Sea. With enemy bases lining both its western and eastern shores, it has become a hostile body of water. We have already lost two of our conventional submarines there, for no appreciable return.

  “Our real strength, though, is in the Baltic. Our own bases in Germany and our minefields have made the narrow waters impassable to Combined Forces shipping. Their transport aircraft must use long routes to avoid our fighters. The Americans and the British know that as long as we hold both the Baltic and the North Sea approaches, they cannot effectively resupply the Poles or their other Eastern European allies.”

  Gibierge paused again and looked about the room. Fixing his gaze on each man in turn, he said with certainty, “Trying to clear the Baltic by destroying our air and sea bases there and along the North Sea coast is more than the obvious move. It is their only move.”

  He shook his head grimly. He had chosen the next words carefully, but there was no way to make it sound good. “And they will succeed.”

  The admiral raised his voice a little, cutting off the anticipated questions and protests. “The outcome is almost as certain as the answer to a simple mathematical equation. We have good intelligence about the enemy’s capabilities, and we know the limits of our own resources. The Americans and British have the firepower, both in numbers and technology. The battle will take time, but when it is over we will have lost control of the Baltic. And with it, we will have lost any hope of bringing this war to a swift and victorious conclusion.”

  Gibierge focused on Desaix. Of all the formidable men in this room, the Foreign Minister was the most formidable. The others would follow his lead. “Working within those parameters, the naval staff can only see a single option: a massive, concentrated air attack on a single enemy carrier, just as it comes within striking range of our coastline. Destroying one of the two American carriers would significantly weaken their offensive. More important, it would deal a severe political blow to the United States.”

  Desaix and the others nodded. With five or six thousand sailors and airmen aboard each carrier, the losses suffered in any sinking would certainly shake American public opinion. They might even turn it against continued intervention in Europe.

  All right, Gibierge thought, he’d given them hope. Now to dash those hopes. “Unfortunately this plan will not work, either — not as it stands.”

  He could see them sitting up, puzzled, ready to object. “Without long-range missiles with large warheads, any attack on an American carrier battle group would only result in serious aircraft losses for us — with very little chance of success. Soviet anticarrier tactics were based around missiles with ranges of five or six hundred kilometers, equipped with one-ton explosive warheads. Our air-launched weapons are shorter-range and carry warheads only a fraction of that size. So any strike we mount using conventional missiles would require too many planes operating too far from home with too few fighter escorts. America’s Tomcat and Hornet interceptors would chop our attack force to ribbons before it could even fire.”

  The admiral straightened to his full height and delivered his own bombshell. “There is one way and only one way to assure success. We must use nuclear weapons.”

  The room erupted in a chorus of agitated exclamations all mixed together. Words like “impossible” and “madness” emerged from the confused babble.

  Gibierge waited patiently for Defense Committee members to settle down. As he had expected, so did Desaix.

  The Foreign Minister fixed Gibierge in a steady gaze, then said, “I would like to hear your reasoning, Admiral.” His tone made it clear that what he really meant was, “This had better be good.”

  Gibierge nodded his head. “Of course, Minister.” He’d practically lived with the relevant numbers for the last week. “Our longest-range conventional antiship missile is the ANL, with a range of one hundred eighty kilometers. It is a stealthy, supersonic seaskimmer, and a fearsome antiship weapon. One or two hits will sink a frigate or destroyer. Unfortunately we would need dozens of hits by those same missiles to cripple something as large as a
carrier. Penetrating an American battle group’s defenses and achieving that many hits would require at least fifty successful launches. Factoring in likely losses from the enemy’s fighter interceptors, that means we would have to commit four full squadrons of aircraft just as missile carriers. That is too much of our air strength, leaving nothing for the vital supporting roles.

  “Our supersonic, nuclear-tipped ASMP nuclear missile has a longer range and mounts a three-hundred-kiloton warhead. And one hit from one missile will obliterate an American aircraft carrier.” He stopped, letting the assembled commanders and politicians savor that.

  “The military implications are clear, Admiral, but what about the risk of escalation? After all, the United States has its own nuclear forces — forces that far outmatch ours.” Desaix’s measured tone held no criticism or approval. Gibierge guessed that the jury was still out.

  He had expected the Foreign Minister’s question. “If we limit our attacks to naval targets in the open ocean, I do not believe that America will dare use its nuclear weapons against us. The risks are too high and the rewards are too few. Our air and sea bases are largely surrounded by civilian population centers. Striking them would mean killing tens of thousands of innocents. No American or British political leader could authorize such an attack — especially not if we threaten to retaliate in kind. Although our strategic nuclear weapons cannot reach American territory, we could devastate Britain — and they know it.”

  The admiral saw Desaix and most of the other committee members nodding. America’s space-based missile defenses couldn’t hope to block all the ballistic missiles fired at such short ranges. Even if they could, the French Air Force possessed enough aircraft-carried nuclear bombs to turn its island neighbor into a radioactive slag heap. A few of the men in the room, mostly Germans, looked horrified at the turn their planning had taken.

  Gibierge ignored them. “If the strike works, and there is no reason to think it will not, we can repeat it against the other American carrier.” The admiral felt his own enthusiasm rising again. In his professional opinion, the limited tactical use of nuclear weapons at sea was the only realistic option. Any other course doomed his beloved navy to certain destruction. “The loss of even one battle group will break the back of the Combined Forces offensive. And the Americans and British will not have time to make another effort before Polish and Czech munitions and fuel supplies are exhausted or they come begging for peace.”

  From their expressions, Gibierge could tell that his reasoning had convinced many of the assembled military and political leaders. Desaix seemed to have made the same calculation, because he asked, “When could you mount such a strike?”

  “Both carriers are in the North Sea now, but they’re well out of our range. I doubt we’ll have a chance to attack until they begin closing our coast to launch their own air strikes on us.”

  Desaix nodded. “Very well.” He glanced at his colleagues before continuing. “Although I’m sure we’ll need further discussion before issuing any final approval, I suggest you begin making all the necessary preparations, Admiral.”

  Guichy, Morin, and the others murmured their agreement. Given the French hold over the EurCon military command structure, further discussion would be mostly for form’s sake only. Despite the alliance with Germany, the French nuclear arsenal remained under unilateral French control.

  Gibierge felt a mixture of relief and tension pass though him. The prospect of using nuclear weapons was frightening, even to the man who proposed their use. He was relieved, though, because he really saw no other military solution to their situation.

  Desaix had agreed quickly, almost too quickly, he thought. That was fine in this case, though, since he’d agreed with Gibierge. Desaix had a reputation for fast action, and for strong, straightforward action. This certainly fitted in that category.

  “We will be ready long before the carriers are in striking range, sir,” the admiral answered.

  Desaix continued. “In the meantime, I suggest we order our commanders inside Poland to step up their attacks. Let’s try to break the Poles before the damned Americans can intervene.” Nicolas Desaix turned to Michel Guichy. “Tell your commanders to turn up the heat.”

  JUNE 14 — GDYNIA AIR BASE, POLAND

  “Alert!”

  An incredibly loud klaxon pulled Tadeusz Wojcik out of his lounge chair and a sound sleep. He awoke to find every light on and every door in the operations building opening automatically.

  Habit and adrenaline propelled him down the hall and out a pair of double doors onto the flight line. It was already light outside, though the sun wouldn’t be fully up for another few minutes.

  Pilots spilled outside into the crisp, clear morning air, jumping into waiting jeeps. Other figures, ground crews and antiaircraft gunners, ran for their posts as well.

  Gdynia’s shelters were crammed with aircraft, the compressed remains of much of Poland’s fighter force. One of them was Tad’s. His experience, and his nine kills, had entitled him to a new aircraft, one of the precious replacement aircraft flown in from the States. The F-15’s exhausted ground crew had taken the time to put five German Maltese crosses and four French roundels under its cockpit, along with his name and new rank: captain.

  Once the starter turbine was running, feeding power into his Eagle, Tad hooked up his radio leads. “Ocean Leader, checking in.”

  The other three pilots in his four-plane flight were also on the circuit within moments. They were all good men, following a well-rehearsed drill.

  Tad hurriedly brought the fighter to life. His start-up procedure differed from that for a normal mission. In a scramble, time is everything. The F-15’s inertial navigation system took five minutes to spin up, so rather than wait for it to stabilize, Tad would fly without it, getting steering commands from ground controllers. For an intercept over home territory, that and a magnetic compass should be good enough.

  More voices from other flights checked in on the same frequency. Some were voices he recognized easily. Others, less familiar, belonged to pilots from the 34th Fighter Regiment. Polish air losses had been so severe that the higher-ups had combined the 34th and the 11th into one composite unit.

  He was halfway through start-up when Major Dmowski, the 34th’s operations officer, came on the line. “Ocean, Razor, and Profile flights, forty-plus bandits inbound. Heavy jamming. Steer two eight zero magnetic after takeoff.”

  Tad whistled to himself, letting his hands work while his brain absorbed the size of the raid. The biggest yet. There wouldn’t be any lack of targets out there. The needles on two dial gauges in the middle of his instrument panel quivered and stopped rising. His tailpipe temperatures were stable.

  He signaled the shelter crew. As they pulled the chocks and swung the armored door open, Wojcik gently advanced his throttles and started to taxi.

  Over the radio, Dmowski issued orders positioning the twelve Polish fighters he was sending into the sky for battle. “Flights, step at one, two, and three thousand meters. Attack anything without positive IFF.”

  Craning his neck behind him, Tad saw the three remaining aircraft of Ocean flight following him. Other F-15s swung into place behind them. Speeding up, he turned onto the runway and waited a moment while his wingman rolled up alongside him.

  “All flights, new data. There is another raid behind the first. Count unknown, but many. Wait one…”

  Tad shoved the throttles forward again and watched the runway race past beneath him. Whatever was coming, he needed to get aloft. He pulled the F-15 up steeply, accelerating fast.

  Dmowksi came on the air again, concern filling his voice. “All flights, this is Castle. College is off the air, Climax is under attack. All flights go to free search. Good luck.” He sounded like he really meant it.

  The enemy was going after Poland’s radar and ground control network with a vengeance — trying to blind Tad and his fellow pilots before they could close with the incoming raids.

  “Ocean, this i
s Ocean Leader, radars on, turn left now.” Tad pressed his own radar switch and swung the F-15’s nose to the west. The screen came alive, filled with dots and masses of flickering snow. His threat receiver also lit up, cluttered with so many signals that he was tempted to just shut it off.

  Despite the EurCon jamming, the Eagle’s radar had already locked onto a target, almost seventy miles out. Now if he could just keep himself and his flight alive long enough to close the range.

  Under his oxygen mask, Tad Wojcik started sweating. This was going to be a hard day.

  THE LOIRE VALLEY, NEAR SAUMUR, FRANCE

  The Loire River, the longest in France, seemed designed by God to frustrate those who coveted its waters for recreation or for commerce. Quicksand, whirlpools, and swirling, strong currents made the Loire too dangerous for swimming or for shipping cargoes between the towns and cities lining its banks. The river was something to look at, not something to use.

  At least not for most.

  But there were a few, some of those born and bred beside its levees, for whom the Loire held few terrors. They had learned to “read” the river and each of its capricious moods. They knew its traps and they knew the safe passages between each watery snare.

  Jacques Liboge was such a man. Still supple despite his sixty-six years, he rose early almost every day to fish in the Loire. As a boy, it had been a way to help feed his family during the war. After that, he had kept on fishing — for the peace it offered as much as the food.

  This Sunday morning, as he tramped down the path to the tiny boat tied to a small wooden dock, he could tell the day would be a warm one. The river coiled west toward the distant ocean, its surface as smooth and unruffled as glass. It was still dark, so he was careful of his footing as he loaded his tackle and sat down. Then, with sure, swift motions born of long habit, Liboge cast off, picked up the oars, and glided easily out onto the river.