The Red Line

“Does it, Chet? I’m not so sure.”

“Mr. President, you must order a military mobilization immediately,” the Secretary of Defense urged.

“No, I think Mike’s made some sense here. We can’t take such drastic action based upon a few photographs. I believe we should do something, though. General, what is the minimum response we could undertake without tipping off the Russians about what we’re up to?”

“Mr. President, the response we should undertake is a complete mobilization of America’s armed forces, active and reserve. If we can’t do that, then we should first evacuate all American dependents within one hundred miles of the border. Next, we need to strengthen our ground forces and ready our fighter aircraft on the East Coast to move to Europe. Then, we must reinforce our highest-priority needs. I’d begin with at least one battalion of Patriot missiles and as many field hospitals as we can muster. We’re critically short of medical personnel in Germany. And our present air defenses aren’t strong enough to stop a determined enemy. Finally, we need to place our forces in Europe on alert against a Russian attack.”

“General Larsen, I agree with you on everything except the part about placing our troops in Europe on alert,” the President said. “That would just be too provocative. Can we do the rest of what you suggest without creating too much suspicion?”

“Mr. President, we can begin moving the 82nd Airborne and at least part of one of our armored divisions to Europe, one battalion of Patriot missiles, and a few field hospitals without raising much suspicion at all. We can also send a few wings of fighters over at the same time, without anyone’s noticing. If challenged, we’ll claim we needed to call an unscheduled test to see where the weaknesses are in our ability to reinforce our units in Europe under winter conditions. As far as moving the dependents nearest the border, we can probably get away with that for a little while before things get out of hand.”

“Good, let’s take that approach, then. Get on it right away.”

“But, Mr. President, we really do need to put our units in Europe on alert.”

“No, General, that would definitely tip everyone off.” Especially the press, the President thought. “If you can bring me some information about what’s under those camouflage nets . . . you know, get some pictures of that . . .” The President stood and started escorting them to the door.

“Mr. President, there’s an intense storm scheduled to hit Europe in the next few hours,” Benson said. “We’ll probably not be able to get any definitive photos for another four days. Not before January 29 at the earliest.”

“Well, bring them to me then, and we’ll revisit this entire issue,” the President said.

He closed the door behind them and returned to his desk. There was still much more to do today. The Iowa caucuses and the New Hampshire presidential primary were only a few weeks away, and he didn’t like what the polls were saying.

CHAPTER 12

January 29—12:05 a.m.

2nd Platoon, Delta Troop, 1st Squadron, 4th Cavalry

On the Way to E48

The lead elements of an immense Russian armored column were inside Germany. One thousand tanks, one thousand BMPs, and hundreds of support vehicles rumbled down E48.

A single Humvee was headed for the same highway. Five Bradleys trailed a mile behind.

Now two miles from where the north–south highway and E48 met, the Humvee ran through the blizzard unopposed. The firing along the border had nearly stopped. Jensen knew it wasn’t a good sign. So far, they’d completed three miles of the fateful journey without seeing a soul. Neither friend nor foe had been encountered. Jensen understood, however, that the real test lay in front of them.

“Seth, everything okay back there?” he whispered into his headset.

“Yeah, Bob. We’re all fine. How ’bout you?”

“Quiet as can be. Haven’t seen a thing. But that could change at any moment. So keep your guard up.”

“Roger.”

Jensen scanned the road ahead. Every one of his senses was keenly alert. At thirty miles per hour, the Humvee plunged through the fearful night. The platoon sergeant knew they could die in an instant without ever realizing what had occurred. In the next mile, or around the next curve, an enemy rocket could be waiting.

Deep within the forest, the Humvee’s tires churned through two feet of virgin snow. Time stopped. Every moment was a tortured eternity.

He glanced at Ramirez. The young private stared straight ahead. The cavalry soldier continued to grip the steering wheel with all his might. Fear was etched onto every feature of his gaunt face. Despite the freezing temperatures, beads of sweat trickled down Ramirez’s forehead and appeared on his upper lip.

Jensen returned to watching the ominous path. A few more eternities passed.

Just over a mile to E48.

• • •

The lives of the cavalry squadron’s fifteen hundred men rested squarely upon Lieutenant Colonel David Townes’s sturdy shoulders.

For squadron commander Townes, the time spent on the border was always exceptionally difficult. With weapon in hand, nearly half the squadron’s soldiers stared across a few hundred yards of open ground at a person they’d been indoctrinated to hate. An enemy who stared back at them, also with weapon in hand.

During his unit’s month at the border, he’d seldom slept. For the past two weeks, however, he’d not slept at all. With the Russians conducting their massive war games, sleep had become a luxury the squadron commander could no longer afford. He worked twenty-hour days, struggling to hold together a squadron responsible for defending fifty miles of the border of a free country and its eighty million citizens. With his meager force, he was charged with protecting two major highways—E48, which ran within a mile of squadron headquarters at Camp Kinney, and E50, forty miles south.

Townes had spent the evening going over the disturbing intelligence reports that had wound through a half dozen levels of command before finally finding their way into his hands. The reports left little doubt. The squadron was face-to-face with at least ten Russian divisions.

Fifteen hundred Americans were up against 110,000 Russians. For every member of 1st Squadron, there were more than seventy of the enemy. Neither the squadron commander nor any soldier under his command had the faintest illusion about stopping the Russians should they decide to advance into Germany. That had never been their mission. Their job was to be the trip wire. They were here to delay and harass their opponent for as long as they could. And Townes, like Jensen, understood there was only one way to accomplish such a task—by bleeding and dying in the snows of Germany.

The men of 1st Squadron were here to give up their lives.

The squadron commander’s assets were quite limited. Six hundred of his soldiers were on the border at any moment. Fifteen miles behind them, at Camp Kinney, he had in reserve an equal number of cavalry soldiers who’d come off twenty-four hours at the border at eight this morning. David Townes also had at his disposal two hundred support soldiers—cooks, clerks, and mechanics. His most valuable assets were two troops, each with twelve top-of-the-line M-1 Abrams tanks, and a squadron of twenty-one tank-killing Apache helicopters.

Townes’s last meeting with his staff had been three hours prior to the Russian attack. With the threat the enemy posed clear for all to see, the meeting had been quite animated.

“Sir,” the squadron aviation officer said, “I have to recommend that if something should happen tonight, you don’t commit the Apaches to battle in the middle of a blizzard. We can’t afford the losses such an order might create.”

“Captain Marks, I thought your Apaches were capable of fighting in all weather conditions.” There was disgust in the quick-tempered Townes’s voice.

“They are, sir. But with the tactics we employ, our losses could be tremendous. I only have twenty-one Apaches. And three of those are deadl

ined for parts. The weather’s supposed to break by morning. If the Apaches have to be ordered into combat, I recommend that you wait until then.”

Townes knew that his subordinate was correct. The Apaches’ strongest ally was surprise. Their approach was to fly into battle at full speed with their skids skimming the treetops. They would catch the enemy unaware, killing him before he could counterattack with his air-defense weapons. This tactic, however, had its costs. Despite their sophisticated guidance systems, the squadron commander had lost Apaches on night-training missions in perfect weather. Even the most careful pilot could inadvertently fly into telephone wires.

“All right, Marks. If anything happens, we’ll hold the Apaches back until morning.”