The Fijian trawler MV Vanuatu was manned by East Indian Fijians with long memories of Colonel Kabuka’s coup d’état of 1987 when the Fijian-run military overthrew Her Majesty’s duly elected government in the South Seas island. Indian journalists were imprisoned, and the ever-present hostility of the native Fijian population against their fellow East Indian citizens was as palpable in the balmy air as the humidity that hung so oppressively over Suva Bay. Paradise had lost its innocence forever after the coup, and into the void created by the condemnation issued from Her Majesty’s government, the Russians had come, bearing aid. In return, the Russians received not only fish treaties but also the right to visit and use Fijian port facilities for repairs to the huge Soviet trawler fleet whenever “necessary.”
At one stroke the Soviets in the eighties had extended the KGB’s and MVD’s intelligence-gathering facilities halfway around the world to the South Seas — hitherto the American navy’s domain.
And so it was that the MV Vanuatu, ostensibly a Fijian trawler but in reality under subcontract to the Russian merchant marine, operating between the Ellis Islands group and Hawaii, was in Honolulu when Freeman’s 747 landed. Still, the Indian operatives aboard the trawler wouldn’t have learned of his presence but for one of the civilian ground crew from Honolulu’s airport grouching in the Reef Bar about missing the first round of poker because he’d had to work overtime “juicing up” some bigwig’s “flying lanai.”
“Some politician’s freebie,” suggested one of the players, another mechanic, making like a high roller, ordering mai-tais all round.
“Nah,” said the airport mechanic. “Wasn’t politicians. They hit the tarmac soon as they land. Suck in their gut, leis all around them, and big smiles for the Advertizer. These guys wouldn’t even leave the plane when we were pumping ‘er full of Avgas.”
It wasn’t much to go on for one of the Vanuatu’s crew sitting at the bar, knocking back his fourth Bud, but it was enough for Vanuatu’s skipper to pass it along via “fish talk.” This innocuous plain-language transmission, full of information about sea conditions, movements and depth of schools of fish, was relayed from one trawler to another as far as the South Korean and Japanese trawler fleets plying the Tsushima Straits off Japan’s southern island of Honshu. By the time Freeman’s plane reached Tokyo’s Narita Airport — Osaka ruled out because of fog — a South Korean trawler, manned by North Korean illegals, all with bona fide ROK papers, had sent a fake SOS of predetermined coordinates. The rescue hovercraft of the Japanese defense forces, taking the message as a genuine distress call, ended up on a wild-goose chase and assumed the boat had sunk when they reached the area and found no sign of the vessel.
The coordinates, a number-for-letter code, alerted Soviet operatives from Japan to Vladivostok and Khabarovsk that the Americans’ VIP plane was at Narita.
In order that there would be no possibility of either Soviet or Chinese radar-guided, surface-to-air missile batteries along the Yalu and Tamur firing at the Soviet mission’s aircraft as they headed south, a secret message in “four group, number-for-number” code went out from STAVKA Moscow HQ to Far Eastern TVD HQ Khabarovsk — for repeat to the Soviet Embassy in Beijing. The message, mainly for the benefit of the Chinese, was to inform all AA batteries that in the next twenty-four hours, Soviet fighters would be in Manchurian air space and were not to be fired upon.
The message was intercepted by U.S. intelligence satellite K-14 in geosynchronous orbit over the South China Sea, but as the STAVKA’s code had not been broken, the number series transcript of it was filed — to add to the voluminous piles of other intercepts, which included everything from military traffic to civilian traffic between the United States, Canada, and Asia. Even if the code had been cracked by U.S. intelligence, the chances of it being brought immediately to SACPAC HQ in Tokyo were fifty-fifty due to what insiders habitually called the PHS, or Pearl Harbor Syndrome, referring to the avalanche of information which might contain what you want to know but which, even with computers working flat out, takes hours, often days, to process.
“I assume we don’t have to stop at Matsue?” Freeman asked Norton as their car drove across from the secluded VIP lounge at Narita to the Boeing. “We can go straight through to Seoul.”
“Yes, sir, and in the morning we fly up to Pakchon — it’s only about thirty miles from the front.”
“Front the front! It will be the front if Creigh doesn’t pull himself together.”
As the car drove across the runway, a dull, thudding sound came from underneath as the clacking of the tires on the cement seams was muffled by the car’s heavy armor-plated chassis. “Those fighters. Remember to have them go off a half hour before us.”
“It’s all arranged, sir. Don’t think there’ll be any problem. Overcast above the Sea of Jap— sorry, sir, over the East Sea. That’ll help hide the big bird. And so far, security seems to be holding up.” By way of underscoring his point, Norton reached forward and took a copy of Stars and Stripes from the pocket by the jump seat. “Here’s a photo of you inspecting the forward troops around Warsaw. You were in Washington at the time.” The headline ran.
FREEMAN CROSSES BORDER — TAKES BREST
DRIVES ON TO MINSK
The look-alike, Freeman had to admit, was very convincing and well rugged up, the military scarf speckled with snow, bundled high against the cold — and close-up shots.
“Yes,” agreed Freeman, obviously pleased, if not by the deception, then by the paper’s announcing to the world at large that his American-led NATO armored column had succeeded in breaking through and were now engaging the Russians on their own soil. Nevertheless, he uncharacteristically intoned a caution. “But can we hold them, Dick?” He paused and put down the paper. “By God, I told my men I don’t want to ever hear we’re holding anything, and last report I get is we’re grinding to a stop, ‘consolidating,’ because Russian subs have been chopping up our Atlantic supply line. We’ve gotta have more gas, Jim, more food, munitions — more of everything before those bastards in Moscow can organize a counter attack. More battles in history have been lost by overextended supply lines than for any other reason.”
“The Russians are stuck, too. General. Snow is neutral.”
“The hell it is. For the Russians it comes with mother’s milk.”
“Maybe, sir, but the fact of the matter is, they are digging in for the moment.”
Freeman nodded, pulling up his coat collar and tightening his belt as he walked unhurriedly in the pouring rain to the plane. “Stuck! But for how long. Jim? Russia’s vast, all right, but their supply problems are still not as rough as ours. We can blow up their rail tracks. They fix them. We blow them up again, they can use horses to haul supplies if necessary. But we have to cross an ocean.” Deep in thought, the general walked up the stairs to the plane. “You know the greatest surprise in this war, Jim?”
“What’s that. General?”
“All the experts said that there would never be trench warfare again because it would be a war of mobility — the fastest-moving war men had ever seen. Fact is, soldiers have never been worn out physically and mentally as fast before — all because of this mobility. At this point in history, both sides are exhausted.” Colonel Norton thought it impolitic to remind the general of what he had said earlier about stress being an excuse for cowardice. Geniuses, he figured, had the right to be inconsistent.
“We’ve got to surprise them, Jim. Somehow we have to—”
“Merlin?” proffered Norton, referring to the plan the general had been working on, a plan so secret that only he, Norton, and his G-2 knew about it.
Freeman shook his head. “Our boys aren’t ready yet, Jim. God knows I’m not known for overcaution, but we’d only have one shot at it. Besides, it’s a last-ditch scenario. Don’t want to use it until I absolutely have to. First let’s try to untie this logjam in Korea, beat the Chinese and North Koreans back over the Yalu. If we do that, we can take pressure off our boys around Brest while our jokers figure out what the hell is going on with our convoys. Something screwy going on with the Russian subs. Well,” he sighed, “at least the Russians don’t seem to know I’m over here.”
“No, sir. Flying over the East Sea’s going to be the most restful part of the trip.”
“Good. I sure as hell could use the sleep.”
As the general buckled up, the Boeing’s jets screaming into high pitch, Norton was called up to the communications console. Moments later, he walked back through the eerily lit alley of winking consoles and computers and handed Freeman a top secret message of unconfirmed gas attacks by PLA— Communist Chinese — forces against several South Korean positions across the Yalu.