Chapter 46
Journey Home
They waited for SORGE, and rarely had anyone waited more expectantly even for the arrival of a firstborn child. There was a little drama to it, too, because SORGE didn’t deliver every day, and they could not always see a pattern when it appeared and when it didn’t. Ed and Mary Pat Foley both awoke early that morning, and lay in bed for over an hour with nothing to do, then finally arose to drink their breakfast coffee and read the papers in the kitchen of their middle-class home in suburban Virginia. The kids went off to school, and then the parents finished dressing and walked out to their “company” car, complete with driver and escort vehicle. The odd part was that their car was guarded but their house was not, and so a terrorist only had to be smart enough to attack the house, which was not all that hard. The Early Bird was waiting for them in the car, but it had little attraction for either of them this morning. The comic strips in the Post had been more interesting, especially “Non Sequitur,” their favorite morning chuckle, and the sports pages.
“What do you think?” Mary Pat asked Ed. That managed to surprise him, since his wife didn’t often ask his opinion of a field-operations question.
He shrugged as they passed a Dunkin’ Donuts box. “Coin toss, Mary.”
“I suppose. I sure hope it comes up heads this time.”
“Jack’s going to ask us in ... an hour and a half, I suppose.”
“Something like that,” the DDO agreed in a breathy voice.
“The NATO thing ought to work, ought to make them think things over,” the DCI thought aloud.
“Don’t bet the ranch on it, honey bunny,” Mary Pat warned.
“I know.” Pause. “When does Jack get on the airplane to come home?”
She checked her watch. “About two hours.”
“We should know by then.”
“Yeah,” she agreed.
Ten minutes later, informed of the shape of the world en route by National Public Radio’s Morning Edition, they arrived at Langley, again parking in the underground garage, and again taking the elevator up to the seventh floor, where, again, they split up, going to their separate offices. In this, Ed surprised his wife. She’d expected him to hover over her shoulder as she flipped on her office computer, looking for another brownie recipe, as she called it. This happened at seven-fifty-four.
“You’ve got mail,” the electronic voice announced as she accessed her special Internet account. Her hand wasn’t quite shaking when she moved the mouse to click on the proper icon, but nearly so. The letter came up, went through the descrambling process, and came up as clear-text she couldn’t read. As always, MP saved the document to her hard drive, confirmed that it was saved, then printed up a hard copy, and finally deleted the letter from her electronic in-box, completely erasing it off the Internet. Then she lifted her phone.
“Please have Dr. Sears come up right away,” she told her secretary.
Joshua Sears had also come in early this morning, and was sitting at his desk reading the New York Times financial page when the call came. He was in the elevator in under a minute, and then in the office of the Deputy Director (Operations).
“Here,” Mary Pat said, handing over the six pages of ideographs. “Take a seat.”
Sears sat in a comfortable chair and started his translation. He could see that the DDO was a little exercised about this, and his initial diagnosis came as he turned to page two.
“This isn’t good news,” he said, without looking up. “Looks like Zhang is guiding Premier Xu in the direction he wants. Fang is uneasy about it, but he’s going along, too. Marshal Luo is fully on the team. I guess that’s to be expected. Luo’s always been a hardball guy,” Sears commented. “Talk here’s about operational security, concern that we might know what they’re up to—but they think they’re secure,” Sears assured the DDO.
As many times as she’d heard that sort of thing, it never failed to give her a severe case of the chills, hearing the enemy (to Mary Pat nearly everyone was an enemy) discuss the very possibility that she’d devoted her entire professional life to realizing. And almost always you heard their voices saying that, no, there wasn’t anyone like her out there hearing them. She’d never really left her post in Moscow, when she’d been control officer for Agent CARDINAL. He’d been old enough to have been her grandfather, but she’d thought of him as her own newborn, as she gave him taskings, and collected his take, forwarding it back to Langley, always worried for his safety. She was out of that game now, but it came down to the same thing. Somewhere out there was a foreign national sending America information of vital interest. She knew the person’s name, but not her face, not her motivation, just that she liked to share her bed with one of her officers, and she kept the official diary for this Minister Fang, and her computer sent it out on the Web, on a path that ended at her seventh-floor desk.
“Summary?” she asked Dr. Sears.
“They’re still on the warpath,” the analyst replied. “Maybe they’ll turn off it at some later date, but there is no such indication here.”
“If we warn them off ... ?”
Sears shrugged. “No telling. Their real concern is internal political dissension and possible collapse. This economic crisis has them worried about political ruin for them all, and that’s all they’re worried about.”
“Wars are begun by frightened men,” the DDO observed.
“That’s what history tells us,” Sears agreed. “And it’s happening again, right before our eyes.”
“Shit,” Mrs. Foley observed. “Okay, print it up and get it back to me, fast as you can.”
“Yes, ma’am. Half hour. You want me to show this to George Weaver, right?”
“Yeah.” She nodded. The academic had been going over the SORGE data for several days, taking his time to formulate his part of the SNIE slowly and carefully, which was the way he worked. “You mind working with him?”
“Not really. He knows their heads pretty well, maybe a little better than I do—he has a master’s in psychology from Yale. Just he’s a little slow formulating his conclusions.”
“Tell him I want something I can use by the end of the day.”
“Will do,” Sears promised, rising for the door. Mary Pat followed him out, but took a different turn.
“Yeah?” Ed Foley said, when she came into his office.
“You’ll have the write-up in half an hour or so. Short version: They are not impressed by the NATO play.”
“Oh, shit,” the DCI observed at once.
“Yeah,” his wife agreed. “Better find out how quick we can get the information to Jack.”
“Okay.” The DCI lifted his secure phone and punched the speed-dial button for the White House.
There was one last semi-official meeting at the American Embassy before departure, and again it was Golovko speaking for his President, who was away schmoozing with the British Prime Minister.
“What did you make of Auschwitz?” the Russian asked.
“It ain’t Disney World,” Jack replied, taking a sip of coffee. “Have you been there?”
“My uncle Sasha was part of the force that liberated the camp,” Sergey replied. “He was a tank commander—a colonel—in the Great Motherland War.”
“Did you talk to him about it?”
“When I was a boy. Sasha—my mother’s brother, he was—was a true soldier, a hard man with hard rules for life, and a committed communist. That must have shaken him, though,” Golovko went on. “He didn’t really talk about what effect it had on him. Just that it was ugly, and proof to him of the correctness of his cause. He said he had an especially good war after that—he got to kill more Germans.”
“And what about the things—”
“Stalin did? We never spoke of that in my family. My father was NKVD, as you know. He thought that whatever the state did was correct. Not unlike what the fascisti thought at Auschwitz, I admit, but he would not have seen it that way. Those were different times, Ivan Emmetovich. Harder times. Your father served in the war as well, as I recall.”
“Paratrooper, One-Oh-First. He never talked much about it, just the funny things that happened. He said the night drop into Normandy was pretty scary, but that’s all—he never said what it was like running around in the dark with people shooting at him.”
“It cannot be very enjoyable, to be a soldier in combat.”
“I don’t suppose it is. Sending people out to do it isn’t fun, either. God damn it, Sergey! I’m supposed to protect people, not risk their lives.”
“So, you are not like Hitler. And not like Stalin,” the Russian added graciously. “And neither is Eduard Petrovich. It is a gentler world we live in, gentler than that of our fathers and our uncles. But not gentle enough yet. When will you know how our Chinese friends reacted to yesterday’s events?”
“Soon, I hope, but we’re not exactly sure. You know how that works.”
“Da.” You depended on the reports of your agents, but you were never sure when they would come in, and in the expectation came frustration. Sometimes you wanted to wring their necks, but that was both foolish and morally wrong, as they both knew.
“Any public reaction?” Ryan asked. The Russians would have seen it sooner than his own people.
“A nonreaction, Mr. President. No public comment at all. Not unexpected, but somewhat disappointing.”
“If they move, can you stop them?”
“President Grushavoy has asked that very question of Stavka, his military chiefs, but they have not yet answered substantively. We are concerned with operational security. We do not wish the PRC to know that we know anything.”
“That can work against you,” Ryan warned.
“I said that very thing this morning, but soldiers have their own ways, don’t they? We are calling up some reserves, and warning orders have gone out to some mechanized troops. The cupboard, however, as you Americans say, is somewhat bare at the moment.”
“What have you done about the people who tried to kill you?” Ryan asked, changing the subject.
“The main one is under constant observation at the moment. If he tries something else, we will then speak to him,” Golovko promised. “The connection, again, is Chinese, as you know.”
“I’ve heard.”
“Your FBI agent in Moscow, that Reilly fellow, is very talented. We could have used him in Second Directorate.”
“Yeah, Dan Murray thinks a lot of him.”
“If this Chinese matter goes further, we need to set up a liaison group between your military and ours.”
“Work through SACEUR,” Ryan told him. He’d already thought that one through. “He has instructions to cooperate with your people.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. I will pass that along. So, your family, it is well?” You couldn’t have this sort of meeting without irrelevant pleasantries.
“My oldest, Sally, is dating. That’s hard on Daddy,” Ryan admitted.
“Yes.” Golovko allowed himself a smile. “You live in fear that she will come upon such a boy as you were, yes?”
“Well, the Secret Service helps keep the little bastards under control.”
“There is much to be said for men with guns, yes,” the Russian agreed with some amusement, to lighten the moment.
“Yeah, but I think daughters are God’s punishment on us for being men.” That observation earned Ryan a laugh.
“Just so, Ivan Emmetovich, just so.” And Sergey paused again. Back to business: “It is a hard time for both of us, is it not?”
“Yeah, it is that.”
“Perhaps the Chinese will see us standing together and reconsider their greed. Together our fathers’ generation killed Hitler, after all. Who can stand against the two of us?”
“Sergey, wars are not rational acts. They are not begun by rational men. They’re begun by people who don’t care a rat-f*ck about the people they rule, who’re willing to get their fellow men killed for their own narrow purposes. This morning I saw such a place. It was Satan’s amusement park, I suppose, but not a place for a man like me. I came away angry. I wouldn’t mind having a chance to see Hitler, long as I have a gun in my hand when I do.” It was a foolish thing to say, but Golovko understood.
“With luck, together we will prevent this Chinese adventure.”
“And if not?”
“Then together we will defeat them, my friend. And perhaps that will be the last war of all.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” the President replied. “I’ve had that thought before myself, but I suppose it’s a worthy goal.”
“When you find out what the Chinese say ... ?”
“We’ll get the word to you.”
Golovko rose. “Thank you. I will convey that to my President.”
Ryan walked the Russian to the door, then headed off to the ambassador’s office.
“This just came in.” Ambassador Lewendowski handed over the fax. “Is this as bad as it looks?” The fax was headed EYES-ONLY PRESIDENT, but it had come into his embassy.
Ryan took the pages and started reading. “Probably. If the Russians need help via NATO, will the Poles throw in?”
“I don’t know. I can ask.”
The President shook his head. “Too soon for that.”
“Did we bring the Russians into NATO with the knowledge of this?” The question showed concern that stopped short of outrage at the violation of diplomatic etiquette.
Ryan looked up. “What do you think?” He paused. “I need your secure phone.”
Forty minutes later, Jack and Cathy Ryan walked up the steps into their airplane for the ride home. SURGEON was not surprised to see her husband disappear into the aircraft’s upper communications level, along with the Secretary of State. She suspected that her husband might have stolen a smoke or two up there, but she was asleep by the time he came back down.
For his part, Ryan wished he had, but couldn’t find a smoker up there. The two who indulged had left their smokes in their luggage to avoid the temptation to violate USAF regulations. The President had a single drink and got into his seat, rocking it back for a nap, during which he found himself dreaming of Auschwitz, mixing it up with scenes remembered from Schindler’s List. He awoke over Iceland, sweating, to see his wife’s angelic sleeping face, and to remind himself that, bad as the world was, it wasn’t quite that bad anymore. And his job was to keep it that way.
Okay, is there any way to make them back off?” Robby Jackson asked the people assembled in the White House Situation Room.
Professor Weaver struck him as just one more academic, long of wind and short of conclusion. Jackson listened anyway. This guy knew more about the way the Chinese thought. He must. His explanation was about as incomprehensible as the thought processes he was attempting to make clear.
“Professor,” Jackson said finally, “that’s all well and good, but what the hell does something that happened nine centuries ago tell us about today? These are Maoists, not royalists.”
“Ideology is usually just an excuse for behavior, Mr. Vice President, not a reason for it. Their motivations are the same today as they would have been under the Chin Dynasty, and they fear exactly the same thing: the revolt of the peasantry if the economy goes completely bad,” Weaver explained to this pilot, a technician, he thought, and decidedly not an intellectual. At least the President had some credentials as a historian, though they weren’t impressive to the tenured Ivy League department chairman.
“Back to the real question here: What can we do to make them back off, short of war?”
“Telling them that we know of their plans might give them pause, but they will make their decision on the overall correlation of forces, which they evidently believe to be fully in their favor, judging from what I’ve been reading from this SORGE fellow.”
“So, they won’t back off?” the VP asked.
“I cannot guarantee that,” Weaver answered.
“And blowing our source gets somebody killed,” Mary Pat Foley reminded the assembly.
“Which is just one life against many,” Weaver pointed out.
Remarkably, the DDO didn’t leap across the table to rip his academic face off. She respected Weaver as an area specialist/consultant. But fundamentally he was one more ivory-tower theoretician who didn’t consider the human lives that rode on decisions like that one. Real people had their lives end, and that was a big deal to those real people, even if it wasn’t to this professor in his comfortable office in Providence, Rhode Island.
“It also cancels out a vital source of information in the event that they go forward anyway—which could adversely affect our ability to deal with the real-world military threat, by the way.”
“There is that, I suppose,” Weaver conceded diffidently.
“Can the Russians stop them?” Jackson asked. General Moore took the question.
“It’s six-five and pick ’em,” the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs answered. “The Chinese have a lot of combat power to unleash. The Russians have a lot of room to absorb it, but not the combat power to repel it per se. If I had to bet, I’d put my money on the PRC—unless we come in. Our air-power could alter the equation somewhat, and if NATO comes in with ground forces, the odds change. It depends on what reinforcements we and the Russians can get into the theater.”
“Logistics?”
“A real problem,” Mickey Moore conceded. “It all comes down one railway line. It’s double-tracked and electrified, but that’s the only good news about it.”
“Does anybody know how to run an operation like that down a railroad? Hell, we haven’t done it since the Civil War,” Jackson thought aloud.
“Just have to wait and see, sir, if it comes to that. The Russians have doubtless thought it over many times. We’ll depend on them for that.”
“Great,” the Vice President muttered. A lifelong USN sailor, he didn’t like depending on anything except people who spoke American and wore Navy Blue.
“If the variables were fully in our favor, the Chinese wouldn’t be thinking about this operation as seriously as they evidently are.” Which was about as obvious as the value of a double play with the bases loaded and one out in the bottom of the ninth.
“The problem,” George Winston told them, “is that the prize is just too damned inviting. It’s like the bank doors have been left open over a three-day weekend, and the local cops are on strike.”
“Jack keeps saying that a war of aggression is just an armed robbery writ large,” Jackson told them.
“That’s not far off,” SecTreas agreed. Professor Weaver thought the comparison overly simplistic, but what else could you expect of people like these?
“We can warn them off when we start seeing preparations on our overheads,” Ed Foley proposed. “Mickey, when will we start seeing that?”
“Conceivably, two days. Figure a week for them to get ramped up. Their forces are pretty well in theater already, and it’s just a matter of getting them postured—putting them all near their jump-off points. Then doing the final approach march will happen, oh, thirty-six hours before they start pulling the strings on their field guns.”
“And Ivan can’t stop them?”
“At the border? Not a chance,” the general answered, with an emphatic shake of the head. “They’ll have to play for time, trading land for time. The Chinese have a hell of a long trip to get the oil. That’s their weakness, a huge flank to protect and a god-awful vulnerable logistics train. I’d look out for an airborne assault on either the gold or the oil fields. They don’t have much in the way of airborne troops or airlift capacity, but you have to figure they’ll try it anyway. They’re both soft targets.”
“What can we send in?”
“First thing, a lot of air assets, fighters, fighter-bombers, and every aerial tanker we can scrape up. We may not be able to establish air superiority, but we can quickly deny it to them, make it a fifty-fifty proposition almost at once, and then start rolling their air force back. Again it’s a question of numbers, Robby, and a question of how well their flyers are trained. Probably better than the Russians, just because they have more hours on the stick, but technically the Russians actually have generally better aircraft, and probably better doctrine—except they haven’t had the chance to practice it.”
Robby Jackson wanted to grumble that the situation had too many unknowns, but if there hadn’t been, as Mickey Moore had just told him, the Chinese wouldn’t be leaning on their northern border. Muggers went after little old ladies with their Social Security money, not cops who had just cashed their paychecks on the way home from work. There was much to be said for carrying a gun on the street, and as irrational as street crime or war-starting might be, those who did it were somewhat reflective in their choices.
Scott Adler hadn’t slept at all on the flight, as he’d played over and over in his mind the question of how to stop a war from starting. That was the primary mission of a diplomat, wasn’t it? Mainly he considered his shortcomings. As the prime foreign-affairs officer of his country, he was supposed to know—he was paid to know—what to say to people to deflect them from irrational actions. At base that could mean telling them, Do this and the full power and fury of America will descend on you and ruin your whole day. Better to cajole them into being reasonable, because in reasonableness was their best salvation as a nation in the global village. But the truth was that the Chinese thought in ways that he could not replicate within his own mind, and so he wasn’t sure what to say to make them see the light. The worst part of all was that he’d met this Zhang guy in addition to Foreign Minister Shen, and all he knew for sure was that they did not look upon reality as he did. They saw blue where he saw green, and he couldn’t understand their strange version of green well enough to explain it into blue. A small voice chided him for possible racism, but this situation was too far gone for political correctness. He had a war to stop, and he didn’t know how. He ended up staring at the bulkhead in front of his comfortable glove-leather seat and wishing it was a movie screen. He felt like seeing a movie now, something to get his mind off the hamster wheel that just kept turning and turning. Then he felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned to see his President, who motioned him to the circular staircase to the upper level. Again they chased two Air Force communicators off their seats.
“Thinking over the newest SORGE?”
“Yep.” EAGLE nodded.
“Any ideas?”
The head moved in a different plane now. “No. Sorry, Jack, but it just isn’t there. Maybe you need a new SecState.”
Ryan grunted. “No, just different enemies. The only thing I see is to tell them we know what they’re up to, and that they’d better stop.”
“And when they tell us to shove it up our collective ass, then what?”
“You know what we need right now?” SWORDSMAN asked.
“Oh, yeah, a couple hundred Minuteman or Trident missiles would work just fine to show them the light. Unfortunately ...”
“Unfortunately, we did away with them to make the world a safer place. Oops,” Ryan concluded.
“Well, we have the bombs and the aircraft to deliver them, and—”
“No!” Ryan hissed. “No, God damn it, I will not initiate a nuclear war in order to stop a conventional one. How many people do you want me to kill?”
“Easy, Jack. It’s my job to present options, remember? Not to advocate them—not that one anyway.” He paused. “What did you think of Auschwitz?”
“It’s the stuff of nightmares—wait a minute, your parents, right?”
“My father—Belzec in his case, and he lucked out and survived.”
“Does he talk about it?”
“Never. Not a single word, even to his rabbi. Maybe a pshrink. He went to one for a few years, but I never knew what for.”
“I can’t let anything like that happen again. To stop that—yeah, to stop that,” Ryan speculated aloud, “yeah, I might drop a B-83.”
“You know the lingo?”
“A little. I got briefed in a long time ago, the names for the hardware stuck in my mind. Funny thing, I’ve never had nightmares about that. Well, I’ve never read into the SIOP—Single Integrated Operation Plan, the cookbook for ending the world. I think I’d eat a gun before I did that.”
“A whole lot of presidents had to think those things over,” Adler pointed out.
“Before my time, Scott, and they never expected them to happen anyway. They all figured they’d smart their way through it. ’Til Bob Fowler came along and damned near stumbled into calling in the codes. That was some wild Sunday night,” Ryan said, remembering.
“Yeah, I know the story. You kept your head screwed on straight. Not many others did.”
“Yeah. And look where it got me,” POTUS observed with a grim chuckle. He looked out a window. They were over land now, probably Labrador, lots of green and lakes, and few straight lines to show the hand of man on the land. “What do we do, Scott?”
“We try to warn them off. They’ll do things we can see with satellites, and then we can call them on it. Our last play will be to tell them that Russia is an American ally now, and messing with Ivan means messing with Uncle Sam. If that doesn’t stop them, nothing else will.”
“Offer some danegeld to buy them off?” the President wondered.
“A waste of time. I don’t think it would work, but I’d be for-damned sure they’d see it as a sign of weakness and be encouraged by it. No, they respect strength, and we have to show them that. Then they’ll react one way or another.”
“They’re going to go,” Jack thought.
“Coin toss. Hope it comes up tails, buddy.”
“Yeah.” Ryan checked his watch. “Early morning in Beijing.”
“They’ll be waking up and heading in for work,” Adler agreed. “What exactly can you tell me about this SORGE source?”
“Mary Pat hasn’t told me much, probably best that way. One of the things I learned at Langley. You can know too much sometimes. Better not to know their faces, and especially their names.”
“In case something bad happens?”
“When it does, it’s pretty bad. Don’t want to think what these people would do. Their version of the Miranda warning is, ‘You can scream all you want. We don’t mind.’ ”
“Funny,” SecState thought.
“Actually it’s not all that effective as an interrogation technique. They end up telling you exactly what you want to hear, and you end up dictating it to them instead of getting what they really know.”
“What about the appeals process?” Scott asked, with a yawn. Finally, belatedly, he was getting sleepy.
“In China? That’s when the shooter asks if you prefer the left ear or the right ear.” Ryan stopped himself. Why was he making bad jokes on this subject?
The busy place in the Washington, D.C., area was the National Reconnaissance Office. A joint venture of CIA and the Pentagon, NRO ran the reconsats, the big camera birds circling the earth at low-medium altitude, looking down with their hugely expensive cameras that rivaled the precision and expense of the Hubble space telescope. There were three photo-birds up, circling the earth every two hours or so, and passing over the same spot twice a day each. There was also a radar-reconnaissance satellite that had much poorer resolution than the Lockheed- and TRW-MADE KH-11s, but which could see through clouds. This was important at the moment, because a cold front was tracing across the Chinese-Siberian border, and the clouds at its forward edge blanked out all visual light, much to the frustration of the NRO technicians and scientists whose multibillion-dollar satellites were useful only for weather forecasting at the moment. Cloudy with scattered showers, and chilly, temperature in the middle forties, dropping to just below freezing at night.
The intelligence analysts, therefore, closely examined the “take” from the Lacrosse radar-intelligence bird because that was the only game in town at the moment.
“The clouds go all the way down to six thousand feet or so. Even a Blackbird wouldn’t be much use at the moment,” one of the photo-interpreters observed. “Okay, what do we have here ... ? Looks like a higher level of railroad activity, looks like flatcars mostly. Something on them, but too much clutter to pick out the shapes.”
“What do they move on flatcars?” a naval officer asked.
“Tracked vehicles,” an Army major answered, “and heavy guns.”
“Can we confirm that supposition from this data?” the Navy guy asked.
“No,” the civilian answered. “But ... there, that’s the yard. We see six long trains sitting still in the yard. Okay, where’s the ...” He accessed his desktop computer and called up some visual imagery. “Here we go. See these ramps? They’re designed to offload rolling equipment from the trains.” He turned back to the Lacrosse “take.” “Yeah, these here look like tank shapes coming off the ramps, and forming up right here in the assembly areas, and that’s the shape of an armored regiment. That’s three hundred twenty-two main battle tanks, and about a buck and a quarter of APCs, and so ... yeah, I’d estimate that this is a full armored division detraining. Here’s the truck park ... and this grouping here, I’m not sure. Looks bulky ... square or rectangular shapes. Hmm,” the analyst concluded. He turned back to his own desktop and queried some file images. “You know what this looks like?”
“You going to tell us?”
“Looks like a five-ton truck with a section of ribbon bridge on it. The Chinese copied the Russian bridge design—hell, everybody did. It’s a beautiful little design Ivan cobbled together. Anyway, on radar, it looks like this and”—he turned back to the recent satellite take—“that’s pretty much what these look like, isn’t it? I’ll call that eighty percent likelihood. So, this group here I’ll call two engineer regiments accompanying this tank division.”
“Is that a lot of engineers to back up a single division?” the naval officer asked.
“Sure as hell,” the Army major confirmed.
“I’d say so,” the photo-interpreter agreed. “The normal TO and E is one battalion per division. So, this is a corps or army vanguard forming up, and I’d have to say they plan to cross some rivers, guys.”
“Go on,” the senior civilian told him.
“They’re postured to head north.”
“Okay,” the Army officer said. “Have you ever seen this before?”
“Two years ago, they were running an exercise, but that was one engineer regiment, not two, and they left this yard and headed southeast. That one was a pretty big deal. We got a lot of visual overheads. They were simulating an invasion or at least a major assault. That one used a full Group A army, with an armored division and two mechanized divisions as the assault force, and the other mech division simulating a dispersed defense force. The attacking team won that one.”
“How different from the way the Russians are deployed on their border?” This was the Navy intelligence officer.
“Thicker—I mean, for the exercise the Chinese defenders were thicker on the ground than the Russians are today.”
“And the attacking force won?”
“Correct.”
“How realistic was the exercise?” the major asked.
“It wasn’t Fort Irwin, but it was as honest as they can run one, and probably accurate. The attackers had the usual advantages in numbers and initiative. They punched through and started maneuvering in the defender’s trains area, had themselves a good old time.”
The naval officer looked at his colleague in green. “Just what they’d be thinking if they wanted to head north.”
“Concur.”
“Better call this one in, Norm.”
“Yep.” And both uniformed officers headed to the phones.
“When’s the weather clear?” the lingering civilian asked the tech.
“Call it thirty-six hours. It’ll start to clear tomorrow night, and we have the taskings already programmed in.” He didn’t have to say that the nighttime capabilities on the KH-11 satellites weren’t all that different from in the daylight—you just didn’t get much in the way of color.