of the Baltic by a wave of MiG-27 Fulcrums.
Despite the fighting, the Oresund was secure by mid-afternoon, the Danish
and Swedish coastal defenses neutralized. By 1500 hours, the first
minesweepers and ASW frigates were passing the island of Saltholm, in
mid-channel between Malme and Copenhagen, where the old red flag of Communism
fluttered above a bomb-shattered coast guard station.
At 1800 hours, lead elements of the main Soviet Baltic Fleet, including
the Kirov-class battle cruisers Irkutsk and Tallinn, and the aircraft carrier
Kreml, were proceeding north through the sound, threading their way between
cities from which the crack and chatter of gunfire continued to echo.
Throughout the West the alert spread, first from watching satellites, then
through the network of military attaches and observers throughout northern
Europe.
The Baltic Fleet was out.
CHAPTER 15
Monday, 23 June
0015 hours Zulu (1915 hours, 22 June, EDT)
White House Situation Room
Washington, D.C.
Admiral Magruder had been in the White House Situation Room before. It
never seemed to change much from Administration to Administration, this
carpeted, wood-paneled bunker with its hidden television screens; its massive,
central conference table; its flanked U.S. and Presidential flags; its small
army of Marine guards and Secret Service personnel protecting its miles of
passageways and work spaces hidden beneath the streets and buildings of
Washington, D.C. The passes and authorization sent to him earlier that
afternoon by Admiral Scott had gotten him this far past the maze of security.
Now he showed the ID card pinned to the lapel of his dress blue uniform jacket
a final time and entered, crossing the deep gold carpet and finding his place
at the table.
The war in Norway had everyone in the city jumpy. Was Scandinavia the
precursor of all-out war in Europe, or of a nuclear strike against the United
States? No one knew, but security was tighter than he’d ever remembered it.
The tension in the room was a cloying, almost choking presence, unseen but
very real.
Most of the others scheduled to attend the discussion were already
present and seated. Vincent Duvall, the CIA Director, nodded at him as he
walked in. Admiral Brandon Scott, big, bluff, and white-haired, and the
current Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, was engaged in a whispered conversation
with his immediate boss, Secretary of Defense George Vane. Secretary of State
Robert Heideman was reading a report, a worried frown creasing his face behind
the thick lenses of his glasses. After years in the Pentagon, it was still
hard for Magruder to think of these names and faces as people rather than as
personalities glimpsed on television news interviews or shows like Face the
Nation.
As Magruder took his chair next to Admiral Scott, the National Security
Advisor, Herbert T. Waring, entered the room, followed closely by White House
Chief of Staff Gordon West.
“Hello, Tom,” Scott said to him, his voice low. “Welcome to the funny
farm.”
“I got your message, Admiral. Why’d you drag me down here?”
“Because a few years back you ran the battle group we’ve got off Norway
right now. I thought your insights might be valuable.”
Magruder sighed. He’d been in similar situations before but never liked
them. The decision-makers and policy-setters of Washington frequently needed
the point of view of a man who had been there, where their policies met the
real world … but it invariably left him trying to read the minds of other
men, men whose lives depended on his guesses and assumptions. He thought of
his nephew, now Acting CAG aboard the Jefferson. Matt Magruder had never had
much patience with the Beltway desk jockies micromanaging military forces half
a world away.
For that matter, neither had Admiral Thomas Magruder.
He shook his head. “There’s not a hell of a lot I can say about it, sir.
Admiral Tarrant’s a capable man, I’ve heard, but I don’t know him personally.”
“It’s the capabilities of the battle group I’m interested in, Tom. We’ve
got one carrier facing two now, with this new Russian deployment out of the
Baltic. We’re outnumbered fifteen to one in surface combatants. What you
have to say could-”
“Gentlemen!” Herbert Waring rapped the tabletop with his knuckles. “If