by Ian Slater
The general fell into a deep, reflective mood. Finally when he spoke, his tone was one of mellow speculation laced with warning. “Come spring I don’t know where the hell I’ll be. Those clowns in Foggy Bottom are regrouping to get the home as soon as they can. Well, home is where my war is, Dick, and I want to know the moment the first lake cracks — the moment the melt starts.”
Norton was jolted by the implication. “You think they’ll try something, General?”
“Spring thaw’s very bad for armor, Dick. Floods, mud. If I was that son of a bitch Yesov, that’s when I’d counterattack. Catch us with our pants down.”
“Lord, General, I hope you’re wrong.”
“It’s a cease-fire, Dick. Not a surrender.”
“Well,” said Norton confidently, “we’ve got the Russian president, Chernko, on our side. He should keep them in line. Did good work for us in Moscow.”
“We’ll see,” said Freeman, watching a hawk hovering high toward Lake Baikal.
* * *
In Anchorage Lana, sitting and talking with Frank earlier, had now been overtaken by a combination of exhaustion and relief at the news of the cease-fire and was dozing, resting her head on the edge of the bed.
Gingerly, not wanting to wake her, Frank reached for the newspaper cutting the limey had left him on the bedside table. It was a clipping from a six-month-old Stars and Stripes Backgrounder column talking about how Soviet air ace Sergei Marchenko, before he had gone missing over North Korea, had clashed with Soviet air officialdom. Apparently his vision had been deficient in one eye — below the standard required by the Air Force Academy — and he had tried, unsuccessfully, to invoke the case of General Adolf Galland, Germany’s top air ace and head of the Luftwaffe Fighter Command, who had flown not only the prop-driven Messerschmitt but also the first jet fighter, the Messerschmitt 262. He had done it with only one eye, the other being glass.
Quickly Shirer flipped over the clipping for more details, but all he saw was an ad for Coca Cola—”the real thing.” He waited for the limey to reappear, but it was a full twenty minutes before he showed up, ambling through the ward. Lana sighed in her sleep and snuggled further into Frank, who was anxiously waving the limey over.
“What’s up, mate?”
Shirer spoke softly but urgently. “How’d he pull it off?”
“Who?”
Shirer indicated the news clipping. “Galland.”
The limey shrugged. “Dunno, mate. Might’ve memorized the old eye chart.”
“I’ve thought of that,” said Shirer, his voice low, “but they make you close one eye.”
“Yah,” said the limey, “guess you’re right. I dunno.”
“You’re a great help,” said Frank. “He must’ve thought of some—”
“Tell you what, sunshine,” said the cockney, his tone markedly at odds with the grotesque burn mask he was obliged to wear.”I’ll ask the professor — mate o’ mine — when I get ‘ome.”
“That’ll be months,” said Frank, not meaning to be unkind but clearly anxious.
“Yeah, but what’s the big ‘urry? Cease-fire, mate.”
“Yes,” responded Frank, “Well, if you find out, let the know.”
“Not to worry, sport. Ta ta!”
“Frank?” asked Hana, looking drowsy.
“Yes?”
“What’s up?”
“I am,” he replied. “New flight plan.”
“The war’s finished,” she said, yawning.
“Maybe, but I’m not, babe. Not yet.”
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