The battle would be fought from here. It would cost Russians lives-lots of them, but not a single American. The sparing of American lives was more than merely humanitarian: Forte wanted to demonstrate to the enemy that it could be made to suffer appalling losses, at a ratio of-not five thousand to one, but five thousand to zero.
Gwillam Forte pronounced himself satisfied with the preparations. They had now only to wait until the Karl Marx and its sister ships ascended the ship channel. Just beyond the bend, beneath the thick channel mud, lay the two tunnel complexes. They were crammed to their watertight doors with arms, ammunition, boxes of TNT, RDX, and dynamite, the interstices filled with gasoline and viscous aluminum soaps. Farther inland, less than a mile distant, was the San Jacinto National Monument, with its basin for the Texas, flagship of the Texas Fleet. According to the dozens of surveillance monitors aboard the Texas, all was quiet, not a soul to be seen within range of its cameras.
But Gwillam Forte was restless. As the hour approached for the Karl Marx to appear on the television monitors, as the super-battlecruiser turned southwest toward the inner city, he could restrain his impatience no longer.
“Where’re you going?” Ed Curry asked as Forte started out of the command center. “The big show’s about to start. Any minute now the Karl Marx will be steaming onto the screen.”
“Never much liked movies,” he called back. “I want to see the real thing. If you want me, radio the Fubar.”
And he was gone. . . .
Ten minutes later, at fifteen hundred feet, Gwillam Forte was witnessing the majestic procession of white ships as they made their graceful turns, one after the other, toward downtown Houston and Buffalo Bayou Basin. Their formation was still single column, with a destroyer between each capital ship. They were aligned perfectly, like beads on a string, and the interval between ships seemed to have been measured off with the same piece of string. As a demonstration of precision seamanship, it was impressive but wasted, for the banks of the channel-green here instead of black-were devoid of humanity.
Nearly a dozen helicopters were cruising the skies, some very close indeed to the Russian ships, transmitting their video record back to their home studios. The Russian sailors, now mustering at their coming-into-port stations on the weather deck, their anchor details already standing-by, waved cheerily to the choppers.
Two-thirds of the Russian ships had now turned toward the southwest, passing by the Texas basin, maintaining their stately eight knots.
Suddenly there was a cry from the cabin radio speaker on the SD-1 channel.
“Will-we’ve got visitors!”
“In SD-1?” This was a possibility he hadn’t even considered. He damned himself for not having doubled the guard force at the entrance.
“No-aboard the Texas,” Ed Curry’s voice crackled.
“How many?”
“One. At least one’s all we can see. He’s prowling around the restricted area, and he’s got a crowbar in one hand. He’s trying to break in through the boatswain’s locker.”
“Isn’t it welded shut?”
“Yes, but the paint locker isn’t. He’ll be there any minute.”
“Can you get to him?”
“Not before he could do some damage. It’s four minutes from here to the Texas tunnel, nine minutes by railway, three or so up through the- No, we’ll never make it in time.”
“Then I’ll try.”
Forte instructed the pilot to head for the Texas.
“How long will it take?” Forte asked anxiously.
“Minute and a half,” the pilot replied.
“Make it snappy, and set me down on the dock as close to the gangway as you can manage.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Any weapons aboard?”
“None. None at all.”
“Jesus!” Forte couldn’t see himself going up against a man with a crowbar empty-handed. He was too old for that.
“Nothing at all?”
“Well, there’s a flare gun-a Very pistol-for emergencies.”
“This is an emergency-gimme!”
The helicopter was settling onto the dock when Ed Curry’s voice again crackled through the loudspeaker.
“Hey, Will!”
“What is it?” Forte paused with his hand on the door handle.
“We just got a glimpse of the guy close up. His left arm is in a sling-can’t use it at all. And he’s somebody we know.”
“Well who, for the love of Pete?”
“Your old buddy Hobe Caulkins.”
7 JULY 1998:9:30 A.M.
Aboard the Karl Marx Admiral Grell presided at the conference in the flag office, reviewing plans for the victory parade. He turned to Commander Blinovich, liaison officer of the Omsk’s aerial strike force. “How does your captain propose to neutralize resistance along Navigation Boulevard, Commander?” Intelligence had some hours earlier radioed a situation report, indicating the presence of more than 300,000 hostiles concentrated in that area of the city.
“Two hundred twenty gunships are standing by, awaiting your orders to take off, sir.”
“Will the single strike by 220 gunships suffice?”
“According to our calculations-yes, sir.”
“They’d better. We have to root out resistance in one strike. I won’t permit any coming and going of aircraft. It would make our operation look like an aerial circus.”
“I believe I can assure you on that point, Admiral. The first wave will drop high-explosive charges to destroy the structural integrity of the buildings where the guerrillas are concealed. The second will release napalm to set the buildings afire-Houston’s housing is notoriously flimsy-and drive their defenders into the streets. The third wave will drop pellet-bombs to decimate those who remain. The final wave of sixty gunships will annihilate the surviving hostiles with Gat-ling-gun fire. We are confident of inflicting up to 98 percent casualties, most of them dead.”
Grell’s eyes drifted to the scene of desolation outside. Through the portholes of the cabin he could see little but blackened, smoking ruins of twisted metal and scorched earth. The devastation would not compensate for the loss of his son, but there was one small consolation in it: from this zone of destruction no resistance would again appear. As a naval man, he dealt in absolutes-war or peace, victory or defeat, life or death. There was no middle way. While one enemy remained alive, danger threatened. History offered abundant proof of that somber truth. Had a certain Corsican junior artillery officer been killed at the siege of Toulon in 1793 instead of emerging victorious, for example, Russia would have been spared the cataclysmic French invasion of 1812. From such examples Grell had forged a personal creed: diplomacy and debate, failing which, annihilate!
“I’d prefer 100 percent to 98. Cannot this be done?” “Assuredly, sir. But it would take poison gas, and that would interdict the parade to follow.”
“True.” The admiral built a steeple of his fingers and prayed that Blinovich was right. One more good battering and the Texans would be completely demoralized, incapable of organized resistance, finished. Then the remainder of the port calls would be a succession of triumphs, with the momentum picking up right up to the moment the protocols were signed in Washington. “Very well, Blinovich,” he said finally. “I depend on you. Now then, Kolkash, what are your plans?”
Rear Admiral Kolkash, the shaven-headed officer responsible for fleet amphibious operations, was in charge of the parade as well as of defensive actions by naval infantry in the event of opposition.
“The same as I outlined last night, sir.”
“Some of the staff here weren’t present.”
“Yes, sir. We announced, gentlemen, that the parade would take place today on Navigation Boulevard, parallel to the channel on the southern side. This announcement was made to draw the Texas malcontents to this area, where, as you heard from Commodore Blinovich, they will be annihilated. The parade will actually take place on Campbell’s Run, a new broad thoroughfare built five years ago on what used to be Clinton Road.”
“Without advance notice,” Grell noted, “the number of natives attending the parade will be much reduced.”
“As will the risks, sir.”
“Yes, there’s that. What other steps have you taken to ensure security?”
“We’ll have helicopter surveillance as well as armed troops lining the route,” said Kolkash. “We’ll give notice of the change of venue only after the parade parties disembark on shore. This will prevent unruly elements having time to assemble from other parts of the city to prepare against us.”
“Very well.”
One question remained: how many sections would participate in the parade? The Soviet Navy, like the
American, divides its crews into four sections. In times of danger, it is customary to have at least two sections on duty at all times, to keep the guns manned and the ship operating at peak efficiency. In peace time, usually only one section stands watch at any given moment, giving the crew four hours on duty followed by eight hours off.
Grell’s innate caution told him to have only two sections parade. As a blue-water sailor, he didn’t feel comfortable with land crowding him in on all sides, despite the absence of any armed force that could do his fleet injury. On the other hand, the intimidating presence and prestige of the Red fleet would be increased by 50 percent by parading three sections instead of two. In the discussion that followed, this was the course advocated by the fleet’s political commissar, a man whose advice it was usually wise to take.