by Victor Milán
"The situation in Russian Turkestan is most unstable," said the younger, a weanling of sixty-five. "Perhaps we should emplace a full diplomatic envoy."
The elder was eighty-one, but his steps were firm as they walked past a pair of guardsmen with rifles at parade rest and cap straps beneath their chins. The Party's security ministry had a large contingent in place this morning, as every morning, holding back the crowds that thronged the dawn streets of Beijing, so that the rulers of the last Communist nation on earth might enjoy their stroll in Gate of Heavenly Peace Square in imperial isolation.
"We have dispatched a representative," he said in his quiet, almost plodding way. He was a man who weighed and tasted and learned the shape of each word before he let it out of his mouth. When he was a boy in school, his classmates rode him endlessly, thinking he was slow. They had learned better. "One who is quite expert in the history and culture of the region."
"But do we not need someone expert in politics and economics and military affairs? The eyes of the world are on Central Asia."
"Our intelligence services have people in place, of course," the elder said with a touch of admonitory firmness. "Our representative is the one we deemed appropriate."
"A professor," the younger said, "and a woman, at that. These are Muslims. How seriously will they take her?"
"Timur professes himself a believer in equality of the sexes. He will take her seriously, or lose some of his gloss as a hero of modernization. As to why we chose her, instead of a trained diplomatist—though the League seems paralyzed by its defeat last year, the continued existence of Free Turkestan is controversial at best. Our veto alone prevented the U.N. Security Council from condemning the rebellion, after all, and no legitimate government on earth has yet recognized the secession."
A shadow of a smile passed over his face, like a cloud over the sun. "And how could they, since the governments of Uzbekistan, Tadzhikstan, and Kirghizstan are already recognized, and have been for years? Governments-in-exile though they now are, they remain the legitimate authorities. We could scarcely send a professional diplomat to treat with rebels. Dr. Shih is an intelligent young woman, eminently qualified to do that which we need her to do."
The younger man glanced at the elder from beneath thick eyebrows. The elder's face was serene, untouched by worry or years, as smooth as a baby's.
"There is one more matter I should bring up," the younger man said, his voice dropping further. "Our intelligence services have turned up evidence that the woman has ties to dissidents, and may have taken part in the illegal outburst here in Tienanmen."
The older man permitted himself a full smile. So the young dog tests whether the older has left his throat unprotected. Well, the boy was here to learn.
"Perhaps you are not completely familiar with Sun Tzu," he said.
The young man missed a step. Mao, whose divine ten-story countenance beamed down upon them from the wall beside them, had cribbed from Sun Tzu almost as extensively as he did from Confucius. Since the passing of the man, if not his cult, the politically ambitious were well advised to familiarize themselves with the original article.
"I have not studied him as profoundly as you, of course. I humbly beg enlightenment."
The smooth moon face nodded. "Recall the thirteenth chapter."
" 'On Making Use of the Cracks in the Door,' concerning the employment of secret agents." the younger man said quickly.
"Just so. The seventh paragraph tells us that 'what is called "foreknowledge" cannot be elicited from spirits, nor from gods, not by analogy with past events, nor from calculations. It must be obtained from men who know the enemy situation.' "
"Yes."
"Now, recount to me the five types of agents which constitute what Sun Tzu called the 'Divine Skein.'"
"Native, inside, doubled, expendable, and living," the younger man recited.
"Precisely. At the moment, our professor is in the category of living agents, 'those who return with information.' " He smiled a great benevolent smile.
"Do you see, then, how convenient it is that, should circumstances dictate, she can be shifted from the fifth category to the fourth without loss to the state?"
Little Tarim saw them walking across the former cotton fields toward the village at sunset: six men bent under the weight of heavy packs, wearing odd bulky clothing patterned in earth tones, strung out in a vee, kicking over hard khaki clods and trampling weeds. To his terror and exhilaration they carried guns, long and black, held across the front of their hips.
Tarim was eight. His village, on the brink of the Muyun Qum, the Camel's Neck Desert of Kazakhstan's rebel Dzhambul Oblast', comprised eleven families, Uzbek with a strong admixture of Kirghiz. It had seen no fighting: Desert Wind had blown far away in the west. But the settlement, small as it was, had sent three young men as volunteers to Timur's army. Tarim had listened intently to the stories of the two who returned to help organize the population for defense.
It seemed to him the strangers were not threatening. If they meant to attack, would they not be sneaking, making use of what little cover was offered by furrowed, fallow fields awaiting recultivation in food crops less demanding of soil and water than the League's accursed cotton? Would there not be more of them? Six men weren't much of an assault force.
But he could take nothing for granted. Akim and Dmitriy never tired of emphasizing that. Tarim hid in the weeds on the bank of a dry aryk, behind the pale green spray of a tamarisk shrub.
They were going to pass within fifty meters of him, two walking the narrow dirt road, the others fanned out in pairs in the fields to either side. He flattened himself into the winter-dry stubble, wondering what he should do. Could he run to warn the village without being seen?
The farther away of the two men on Tarim's side of the road suddenly stopped and looked straight at him. Tarim's heart jumped into his throat. He was the biggest man the boy had ever seen—except that there was a second man the same incredible size right on the other side of the road.
The enormous man waved. "Come ahead on out, little buddy," he called in the worst Russian accent Tarim had ever heard. "I see you."
Tarim froze. On the road stood a tall man. His face was the color of pale skin tanned well by the sun, and even at this he was clearly as handsome as any actor Tarim had seen on the television set the widow Chichek had bought with the money she got from the government after some drunk accidentally backed a tractor built on the chassis of a PT-76 light tank over her husband in the Ukrainian Republic. He was clearly a hero. He waved to Tarim.
"Don't worry," he called. "We won't hurt you. We're Americans."
Americans! At last! With a happy smile Tarim jumped up and ran to greet them.
"Despite the apparent withdrawal of the Baltic states from the war effort, and in the face of increasingly severe street demonstrations in Moscow by Russian Republic citizens who fear that the rebels may press their advantage by launching a jihad, the League military buildup continues slowly in government-held areas , of the republics of Kazakhstan and Turkmenia, which surround rebel Central Asia. As yet, League forces show no signs of readiness to force a showdown with the insurgents, led by mystery man Timur. President Fyodorin continues to rule out the use of chemical or nuclear weapons against 'League citizens on League soil.' Unofficial armed forces sources insist, however, that counterguerrilla operations by elite 'caravan hunter' teams continue to inflict serious damage on the rebels.'''
The man on the bed granted.
"Though Timur last week refused the latest demand by Iran's ruling Islamic Revolutionary Council that he turn his rebellion into the holy war that Muscovite protesters so fear, cross-border fighting between Iran and the League is reported daily both by satellites and observers on the ground. Substantial numbers of League troops likewise remain tied down on the borders with the People's Republic of China and Central Europe. In a possible move to relieve the tension along the western frontier, League Foreign Minister Zhuravlev met yesterday
with German Foreign Minister Hofstddter. Though the talks were private, rumors hinted that the talks concerned possible League support for German claims to East Prussia, Silesia, and the city of Gdansk, formerly Danzig, now part of Poland. The rumors prompted widespread demonstrations throughout a Central Europe already alarmed by increasing German militarism."
The scene on the hospital-room wall switched from BMP-2s rolling across the chemical-yellowed mud of the Aral Sea fringe to a crowd waving signs—at least half of which were in English—and then to a dark-mustached man in a turtle-neck, who said, "We remember too well the last time the Germans and the Russians got in bed together. The child born was World War II."
He was replaced by an anchorwoman with a beautiful but nonthreatcning milk-chocolate face. The face said, "European Council Chairperson van Damme today issued a statement condemning both Germany and Poland for their anti-communitarian stance in refusing to sit down at the negotiating table."
"Coming up this hour on the Satellite News Network, Australian peacekeeping forces in Papua New Guinea fire on strikers at the Panguna Copper Mine seeking independence for the island of Bougainville, and a member of Jakarta University's controversial 'Gang of Four' physicists announces that recent discoveries by the team may indicate that the speed-of-light barrier may not be unbreakable after all. But first, Americans today bade farewell to a fallen hero...."
Switch to a flag-draped coffin being lowered into the earth. "Though as secretary for Enforcement Affairs he was one of the most influential men in Washington, Larry Doyle never lost the common touch. During his NFL playing days he was known as America's best-loved nose tackle—"
An honor guard in full midnight-blue FedPol battle dress, swept bicycle racer's helmets with heavily polarized Lexan visors, and bulky Kevlar body armor with steel and ceramic inserts, raised bullpup submachine guns and blasted a salute at the low overcast. Vader's Raiders, everybody called them.
' '—and even as secretary he was beloved of millions of children in America's crime-ravaged streets for his continuing portrayal of McGruff, the Crime Dog. Now he has been struck down by an assassin's hand while playing that famous role. ..."
"Holy Mother of Kazan," the man on the bed said in disgust. He needed a drink. He would not ask for one. Even where he was now they had AA, but he had five years and hadn't needed meetings all that often for a long time. Credit his wife: darling, how are you now? He was free to call her, that was the irony. He had been authoritatively advised not to—for her sake, not for his. He missed her and their daughter a whole lot more than the booze. He reached for the remote control to switch channels.
The door to his room opened. His mouth tightened under his extravagant red mustache. Not time for PT again. He was determined not to let his reinjured back make him a cripple, but there was no way he could fooi himself into thinking he enjoyed the therapy.
A small man in a cast-off Western suit coat that managed to be at once neat and shabby entered. His mustache and eyebrows were silver. He wore a white skullcap with a rolled-up black bottom.
The man on the bed moaned. This was worse than physical therapy.
The old man drew up a straight-backed wooden chair next to the bed and sat down with vast and compact dignity. "Good evening. Lieutenant Kuliyev. I hope you rested well after our afternoon session."
"This is a war crime, Aliyev," Nikolay Stepanovich Kuliyev said. "Amnesty International is gonna hear about this."
"You did your duty most bravely, Lieutenant Kuliyev. But in doing so you caused a substantial loss to my country, my people, and me personally. International law requires that we feed you and shelter you and tend your wounds. Do we not do these things?"
"You do," Kolya the Cowboy acknowledged in a mutter.
"But Timur's law requires restitution. We both know it could be worse."
He sat for a moment as if meditating, then raised his face to the window. His old eyes looked out unfocused as the Russian Colonial heart of Tashkent came alive with lights.
"As always, you will learn the lesson by heart first in Russian, then in Kirghiz. This evening's verses concern how Manas's wonderful horse rescued him from the Tanguts."
Kolya clutched his sheets and made an inchoate noise.
"Come, now, Lieutenant. You are making excellent progress. You have only two hundred forty-five thousand seven hundred lines left to learn. Shall we begin?"
Tex extended a huge hand toward the village, two hundred meters away. All the square adobe structures were burning brightly, except the headman's three-room structure in the middle. Tex thumbed a button on the little transmitter, and the headman's house erupted like a volcano.
Rocket-propelled grenades began to cook off and whiz away into the night, drawing tails of light behind them. The men of the half-detachment of Texas Team started walking away across the plowed dry earth, except for Tex and his twin brother Buddy, who stood there with the flickering light of flames and explosions playing on their Moon Pie faces.
Georgie clutched Buddy's sleeve. "Come on, you idiots. Or do you want an OG-7 to land right on top of your fat heads?"
Letting his M60E3—at eight kilos a "lightweight" 7.62mm machine gun—dangle from its sling around his water buffalo neck, Buddy wrapped a hand in the front of Georgie's blouse and without looking plucked him off the ground. "Who you callin' fat, Buttercup?"
"Tell him, Buddy," Tex said.
Twenty meters away Pete stopped and looked back. "Quit screwing around. It's time to move out."
Buddy dropped the Georgian. "We just wanna watch the fireworks. You never let us have any fun."
Georgie was brushing at himself as if he feared Buddy had given him cooties. "You're just pissed 'cause you didn't get to rape anybody."
"Least I got me a dick to rape 'em with." Buddy smirked.
Georgie made a growling sound and twitched a hand toward his Arkansas toothpick.
"Move," Pete said quietly.
A fresh series of explosions rumbled like out-of-season thunder. Tex shook his head and laughed. "Another rebel atrocity," he said, stooping to shoulder his pack. "Ain't it just a shame?"
Chapter THIRTY- ONE
The boys of Fast Eddie's old Jagun 23 were exalted, smoking and joking as they urged the company's mounts out of the semitrailers. Fast Eddie stood to the side with his hands in the pockets of his bombardier's jacket, trying not to breathe in too much of the stink of diesel, dust, and camel shit. He was happy to let his troops do the work. He and Sertikan, having picked up a few nicks in their hides together in the Red Sands, had come to a sort of modus vivendi based a whole lot more on respect than affection. That didn't mean Eddie had much use for the general run of horses, though, and as far as he was concerned camels were still the ultimate evil. Next to the Mets.
Shriveled old Nizam the Camelteer wandered past, leading the big bull Bactrian he called Burannyi-Karanar. "Do you know why the camel smiles, Eddie-bahadur?'
"Because only bloody camels know the secret one-hundredth name of Allaa," Eddie replied in a long-suffering tone. "You know what, Nizam? I've heard that line so damned much I promised myself I was gonna kill the next person who told it to me."
Banter died and heads turned. Nizam went pale beneath the hoary stubble of his cheeks. His turban started to come loose and slump into his face.
Eddie smiled. "Fortunately, it was a Nikolay caravan hunter."
The troopies roared. Nizam turned colors and made catfish motions with his mouth and pushed his turban up his forehead and finally laughed too. He was a genuine nerd, and the speculation among the farm boys as to why he named his favorite camel Debbie Gibson was frankly rude. But he'd just gotten back from his first actual combat mission on the snow-clad desert north of the Syr Dar'ya, where he'd held up fine in the firefight with caravan hunters.
Eddie slapped the old man on the shoulder to let him know he was okay. He wondered if he would ever actually feel anything again.
The tent city north of Chimkent looked as if the circus
had come to town—or at least how Eddie always figured it would from TV and books; Barnum & Bailey brought no tents to Madison Square Garden. Timur had several permanent floating tent cities that he shuttled among. It kept him from getting a static "fortress" mindset and kept the League at least semi in the dark as to his whereabouts at any given time, in case it wanted to risk a bomber to rebel SAMs or try its cruise missiles, which still weren't up to the standards of the early-nineties Tomahawk of the real Desert Storm. They might even consider using nerve gas, trusting that they were too big and mean for the thermonuclear U.N. retaliation the use of such weapons was supposed to incur.
Mostly Eddie figured living in tents gave a real old-fashioned Sky-Blue Wolf steppe-nomad nostaligia head rush to the indiges. Even if the felt yurts of the Golden Horde had largely been supplanted by the synthetic domes of K-mart.
The tent city was a vibrant place, full of bustle and music and laughter. Eddie let it bounce off him like grains of windblown sand.
He wandered along in his Yankees cap and mirror shades and real leather bombardier's jacket that would buy him rations of shit from the animal-rights people back in the USA, scuffing the toes of his Asics athletic shoes in the yellow dust, just to be wandering. He was important now: a hero whose unit had inflicted unexpected casualties on League troops while unwittingly helping goad them headlong into Timur's fire-sack trap. He was noyan, a baron or marshal—which wasn't exactly as grand as it sounded, covering a range from Big Colonel to Little General, but meant he now commanded a thousand-strong regiment. A guerrilla star who had just come off from smoking his third caravan hunter team, when no other unit had ever beaten more than one.
A mannequin modeling the latest nouvelle millennium military drag, by the way he felt. Man-shaped plastic, built around an armature of nothing.
He was a teetotaler who had spent three days drunk after returning from the shattering defeat that turned out to be a victory of shocking completeness. His binge hadn't dimmed his luster with Jagun 23. They figured his getting lit was an arcane Western jock ritual. The ethnic Turks among them, especially the city Saris, understood the appeal of a good snootful themselves.
