Beside the crackling warmth of the Oval Office fireplace, the president of the United States felt cold.
With the chiefs of staff, press aide Paul Trainor, and National Security Affairs adviser Harry Schuman sitting on the white leather lounge chairs behind him, he read the message that had been relayed directly to him by the U.S. trade legation in Taipei:
POISON GAS USED BY PRC FORCES AGAINST ROK POSITIONS NEAR MANPO ON YALU STOP POISONOUS GAS NOT YET KNOWN FOR CERTAIN BUT HAS BEEN CONFIRMED AS NERVE GAS TYPE SIMILAR OR IDENTICAL TO THAT USED IN NINETEEN EIGHTIES IRAQ/IRAN WAR STOP OBVIOUS DANGER IS THAT IF BEIJING HAS AUTHORIZED USE AGAINST NKA WE MUST ASSUME THEY AND/OR NKA GENERAL KIM WILL NOT HESITATE TO USE AGAINST US FORCES IN KOREA MESSAGE ENDS
Mayne stared into the fire as he finished reading the message and saw the red coals collapsing as he imagined ancient Pompeii must have disappeared in Vesuvius’s molten sea of lava. “Has Freeman been told?”
“Yes. Mr. President,” answered Army Chief of Staff General Grey.
“What’s he doing about it?” he asked General Grey.
“Only thing he can, sir,” replied the chief of the army. “Making sure each man has CBW clothing and masks.”
“How about Europe?”
“We’re doing the same thing there, sir. So are the Russians and Chinese if our intelligence reports are accurate.”
“Those dumb bastards!” said Mayne, his right hand massaging his forehead, the message from Taipei dangling from his left hand like a white flag.
“Mr. President,” said Air Force General Allet. “We can’t say for sure that Beijing ordered the use of the gas. It could have been a local decision by one of the commanders. Might have panicked when he saw ROK forces coming at him.”
“Good Christ!” said Mayne, turning away from the fireplace. “Well, let’s find out.”
“We can’t get through to Beijing on normal hookup, Mr. President,” General Grey informed him.
Mayne was incredulous. “Why, dammit?”
“Several microwave relay stations have been knocked out.”
The CNO — chief of naval operations — Admiral Horton, held that the question of who authorized the use of gas was more or less an academic one, “now that the ‘genie,’ “ as he put it, had been let out of the bottle. “No one’s going to care who started it, Mr. President. Point is, what’re we going to do about it now?”
“Warn them,” said Mayne. “Beijing and Moscow. That this is a no-win situation — for all of us.” Mayne caught the quick glance between Admiral Horton and Harry Schuman, his National Affairs adviser, who shifted his cane uncomfortably from left to right, a sign that his usual southern aplomb had been undone.
“Well?” demanded Mayne. “Isn’t it? A no-win situation?”
“Mr. President,” answered General Grey, moving forward uneasily in the plush lounge chair, “the army, marines — and the other two services all have supplies of Sarin and VX nerve gases, despite the agreement to reductions signed by Bush and Gorbachev. It was clearly understood by both sides it could never be a total ban, when at least fourteen other nations had similar chemical and biological weapons, including Libya, Iraq—”
“So? We get the message through to Beijing and Moscow— through Geneva if necessary — that we can play this game, too. God knows we don’t want to, but if any U.S. troops are attacked with gas, then we’ll retaliate in kind. We couldn’t pin this goddamned water poisoning that swept the country on them for lack of evidence, but this is clear-cut, gentlemen. And as Churchill told the Nazis: ‘We didn’t ask that the rules of the game be changed, but if they want to play rough, we can play rough, too!’ Agreed?” He waited impatiently for the consensus.
“Afraid not, Mr. President.” It was General Grey again who dared broach the harsher reality.
“What in hell do you mean. General?” asked Mayne, tapping his breast pocket, as if looking for his reading glasses, and asking his press aide to bring him a glass of water, a sign for Trainor to get the ABM — antiballistic missile — as he called the migrane medication, often having told Trainor in lighter moments that migrane is like an ICBM: if you didn’t start defensive measures quickly, you’ll lose.
General Grey was now sitting uncomfortably on the edge of the lounge seat, hands clasped but looking directly up at his commander in chief. This was no time, he decided, to play pussyfoot or to assign blame. It was the moment for an unsparing truth — not known by the American public at large and not even by many senior officers.
“Sir,” Grey began, “the treaty between Gorbachev and Bush was unable to cover all kinds of chemical agents — only those known for sure as potential weapons at the time. Later the British were the first to notice a problem — a new type of chemical called PFIB. I believe its chemical name is perfiuoro—”
“I don’t want a lecture. General. Just give me the bottom line.”
“Well, sir, this PFIB is ten times more lethal than hydrogen cyanide — easily deliverable and thermally stable. Make the damn stuff by superheating Teflon. Problem is, it permeates our gas suits, which are essentially activated-carbon based. It’s only a fairly recent development — the PFIB, I mean. But even against the known nerve gases, VX for example, our M 17 respirator isn’t very satisfactory.”
“Satisfactory?” said Mayne angrily. “You mean the damn thing doesn’t work?”
“Uh — providing the concentrations aren’t too high, it’s—”
“You’re telling me the damn thing doesn’t work!”
“Mr. President,” interjected Admiral Horton. “General Grey is pointing out, sir, that the CBW suits we have for our troops are markedly inferior to those of the Soviets. As with their space program, it’s one area that they’ve been remarkably—”
Mayne was stunned by the information Grey and Horton were giving him. He looked at Air Force General Allet and Harry Schuman to contest the issue, to tell him they were wrong. But it was Schuman who delivered the final blow. “Mr. President, I’m afraid they’re correct. There’s been a lot of intense interservice rivalry on this one — as with so many contracts.” Schuman turned to the chiefs of staff. “Am l right, gentlemen?”
There was an uncomfortable murmur from the leather lounge, the three chiefs of staff of what they believed was the most powerful nation on earth caught out like guilty schoolboys.
Schuman continued. “We do have some better suits — the MCU-2P has very good visibility. Trouble is, it has what they call a butyl-rubber nylon hood. It’s like a sauna. Impossible to fight in in certain situations, and besides, we haven’t nearly enough to—”
“Mr. President,” cut in Grey, bridling at the prospect of the army taking the full rap. “We had to decide where best to spend the money. Especially after the Gorbachev-Bush love-in. CBW defense has not been put on high priority, not only because of the competition for sophisticated defense of ICBMs allowed by the treaties but because, quite frankly, we put our faith in the Triad — bombers, subs, and our land-based ICBMs. Nuclear forces. Now, we do have most of our M-1 tanks fitted with good antigas air-conditioning units, and they’re pretty safe, but for the infantry — you see, sir, a drop of VX anywhere on the skin can kill you. It’s very difficult to design a suit — one that you have to actually fight in — to satisfy the—”
“Then how come the Russians have done it?” shot back Mayne.
There was silence, until Admiral Horton spoke. “Because, sir, the Soviets’ve put a hell of a lot more of their GNP into defensive capability — CBW defenses in particular. Moscow had miles of tunnels built in the Cold War and also utilizes its extensive subway system as a shelter network. In that regard they’re like the Israelis. I mean in how they’ve prepared for it. Israeli defense forces’ve run gas drills every day since the Iraqis bought the eighteen-hundred-mile-range Chinese East Wind missiles capable of delivering CBW warheads. Soviets have the same kind of drills — as often as we have fire drills. The Russians might be backward as hell in making shoes or running a consumer economy, but not in CBW warfare. They’re infinitely more prepared than we are.”
Mayne walked over to the Oval Office desk, his back to the chiefs, and took the three headache pills lying on his blotter, swallowing them in one gulp before returning, glass in hand, to the fireplace, aware that there had been a subtle but terrifying shift in the conversation. One minute they had been talking about Teflon-produced gas, combatants in chemical/biological warfare; now the three service chiefs seemed to be talking about the vulnerability of the American population at large and not only its soldiers. “You’re telling me,” said Mayne, “that not only are our boys equipped with inferior CBW suits but that those to be used for the civilian population are just as bad?”
Admiral Horton was staring at the fire, Air Force General Allet carefully flicking off a piece of invisible fluff from his knife-edged trousers.
“I think,” put in Harry Schuman, grasping his ornate cane in both hands, “that what the chiefs are saying, Mr. President, is that we have no civilian CBW contingency plan to speak of.”
“That’s not correct,” put in General Grey quickly. “Every city has emergency plans for—”
“Yes,” rejoined Schuman, “for earthquakes, fires — but we’ve no comprehensive CBW strategy or protective clothing. Correct?”
“Essentially that’s—”
“What the hell does that mean, General?” pressed Mayne, “have we or do we not have effective CBW defenses for our civilians?”
“We do not, Mr. President — except for you and your battle staff in Washington should the occasion—”
The commander in chief took another long draft of detoxified water. “Well, gentlemen, we screwed up on that, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Grey. “But there’s nothing we can do about it now except try to stop them using it on us. If they attack us with gas, we’ll lose.”
“Not necessarily,” cut in Admiral Horton. “A CW attack won’t affect our subs at sea or even our surface vessels. Wherever possible, our ships have undergone ‘contoured refit’—got rid of sharp-angled pockets in the superstructure. All the vessel has to do is head into the sea and it in effect washes itself down. That goes for nuclear radiation or CBW attacks. We just seal ‘em up and they can continue to fight in that condition. With air conditioners and filters—”
“You can’t seal a carrier, can you?” challenged Mayne acidly. “If you want to use aircraft.”
“Well, that is an exception, Mr. President.”
“A rather large one, I would have thought, Admiral.” The CNO did not respond.
“I trust the logic of this situation hasn’t escaped you,” pressed Mayne, throwing the remaining water from his glass onto the fire. The coals sizzled for a second but then just as quickly were flaring again. “The situation, gentlemen, is that because we don’t have any significant CBW defensive capability, we would have only one alternative if so attacked. Nuclear war.”
“God forbid, Mr. President,” said General Allet. “But the air force is ready for that.”
“Are you, General? Well, I’m not!” replied Mayne.
The elderly Schuman used his cane to help drag himself forward and up out of the lounge. “Mr. President, none of us, in a sense, is ready for a — uh, nuclear exchange.”
“Let’s call it war, Harry, shall we?” said Mayne icily.
“Very well, Mr. President. But if Moscow was to use such a weapon — and I must tell you that Moscow is surely now aware of Beijing’s action against the ROK forces — I’ll give you any odds that their advisers will see the sudden window of opportunity they now have — namely that this is one area in which they are unquestionably superior to the United States.”
“Suzlov’s not that mad,” retorted Mayne, but it was said more with hope than conviction.
“You might be correct, Mr. President,” said Harry Schuman, “but Suzlov’s not the only one running the show now. His chiefs of staff, including Chernko, are no doubt pointing out that while nuclear arms destroy everything, chemical/ biological weapons destroy only the people — and leave everything intact for the victors. All they have to do is wait till the gas does its job — dissipates — then they move in. And Suzlov’s generals have much more say in making policy these days, Mr. President, than we do with you. I’m not complaining about that, but that is the fact of the matter. Remember, too, we’re now on Russian territory. For them, the temptation is much stronger than for us. It’s one thing for us to sit thousands of miles away, across the Atlantic, but with NATO forces on their front lawn and Freeman on the Chinese-North Korean border, I must concur with General Grey. However distasteful it is, Mr. President. If we can’t win a chemical war, we will have to be prepared for a nuclear war.”
“Yes,” said Mayne, “but if that starts, who stops it?”
Harry Schuman sighed heavily, both hands resting on the silver knob of the cane. “Mr. President — contrary to those on the extreme left who are always talking doomsday, I believe that it is possible to contain it. One or two air bursts on Soviet territory — Siberia — will demonstrate the point adequately.”
“No!” said the admiral, his tone tense with urgency. “Sir. If we’re talking about it, risking a nuclear war because we have to, then our first shots should at least hit vital military targets. The Kola Peninsula, for example. One air burst there could knock out three major military bases, including one SSBN base. Hell, one burst over Siberia, unless it hits an ICBM site right in the middle of the bull’s-eye, will only kill a few reindeer and wipe out a village or two in the boonies. And what in hell do we think they’d be doing in the meantime — in Moscow? No — the way we do it, Mr. President, is to launch an ICBM, land-based or sub, and not have it head for some outlying area that Muscovites don’t give a damn about but aim for a highly strategic target. That’ll show ‘em we’re not fooling around. If we have to do it — we should go for a hard military target. The bigger the better. Not a wild shot somewhere in the boonies.”
“The admiral’s quite right, sir,” said Air Force General Allet. “If we’re going to use the stick — might as well show them we can put our missiles where it hurts them most.”
“Why not Moscow then?” asked Mayne.
“Because they’d all be in the shelters,” explained General Grey.
“Yes,” confirmed the chief of naval operations. “They’d be down there well out of air burst range. Many of the deep tunnels are nuclear-repellant. Superhardened.”
“Perhaps,” said President Mayne, “we could give them a message some other way. Any suggestions?”
“Not at the moment, sir,” answered Grey.
“Then put your backs to it!” enjoined Mayne. “Meanwhile I want you to send the word out that no commander is to use any chemical or biological weapons without my personal directive.”
“Sir?” said Press Secretary Trainor. “We could have a problem with Doug Freeman on this. He’s a brilliant field commander, but if the Chinese pour everything they’ve got into North Korea, he might be tempted to cross the Yalu, use 105-millimeter A tips.”
“Goldarn it!” said Mayne, turning on Grey. “General! You tell Freeman that he is not to cross the Yalu. He is to stay this side of it and do what he’s damn well told.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mayne leaned forward, shaking his head, letting a pencil he’d been twirling fall from his fingers. “What a mess!”
“War usually is,” commented Harry Schuman. The president could feel the migrane getting a stranglehold on him, despite his preemptive strike.