by Ian Slater
“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.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
It was bitterly cold, the Yalu River taking on a strange, ethereal blue though it was still an hour till sundown. Despite the piercing cold and the exposed forward position of Outpost Delta, Norton felt much more comfortable in the hills overlooking the Yalu than he’d been in the claustrophobic warmth of the Boeing. “They won’t try gas here,” he proclaimed confidently.
“What makes you think they won’t?” pressed Freeman, looking down through Delta’s field scope, moving it through a 140-degree arc west to east over the valley below where the ground tumbled away to flats a quarter mile from the frozen river and the wild, snow-covered mountains of Manchuria beyond. “You think they’re more afraid of us than they are of the ROK?”
“No, sir,” answered Norton, “but they’re too close to us, sir. Up here the major says the wind can change because of that valley below quicker than you can blink.”
Freeman was worried. Delta had barely been blooded and morale was rock-bottom all along the Korean front, following Creigh’s humiliating defeat.
“Jim,” said Freeman, still looking through the scope, “you know the prime tactic of the Chinese infantry?”
“Let’s see if I can remember my little red book,” said Norton. “When the enemy attacks, withdraw. When the enemy withdraws, attack. Always seemed pretty much like common sense to me, General.”
Freeman stood up from the scope, hands on his hips, resting on the two leather holsters. “Yes, I know… And put the door back on the house when you leave.” He turned to Norton. “That was old Mao Cow Dung’s way of teaching his peasant army not to act like occupiers when they went through a village — get the people’s backs up and they turn against you instead of helping you. Often used a door for a table in a village — only damn thing big enough. You’re right, though— most of it’s pretty much common sense — at least when you’re not in the thick of battle.” Freeman squinted, for though the sun was starting to dip down to the mountains behind him, there was a glare coming from the broken china of white-covered peaks beyond the Yalu as the mountains of Manchuria reflected the sun’s dying rays. “But some of their tactics aren’t so obvious, Jim. Ever figure out why they attack en masse?”
“Logistics. Plenty of ‘em, I guess. One man’s there to pick up another’s rifle if they haven’t got enough arms. Don’t pick up a dropped weapon, you could lose it — especially in the snow.”
“True,” answered Freeman, still looking at the mountains, trying to detect anything that might signify the Chinese positions. It looked snowbound and deserted. “Attacking in numbers like that also panics defenders,” said Freeman. “Unless they’re veterans. But the main reason, Jim, is that the Chinese infantry commanders, more than any others, want to close with Americans more than with any other army. Want to get as many men in and around our positions as they can.”
“With our firepower, General, seems a pretty crazy tactic.”
Freeman said nothing for a moment, looking through the scope again. “Know what they used to say at the movies when I was a boy, Jim?”
“What’s that, General?”
Freeman swung the scope to the northern sector of the field of fire overlooking the valley and the big bend in the river. “ ‘Too quiet.’ And that’s what I’m feeling now. Too damned quiet.” He turned about and briskly drew Delta’s HQ bunker curtain aside. “Major? How long you say it’s been since the last engagement?”
“Yesterday morning, sir. About 0500. Nothing since then. Not even sniper fire.” The major emerged from the bunker, pulling his collar up against the wind that was blowing snow off the crests of the hill. “You figure they’ve gone back to Beijing, General?”
“The hell I do. Those rice-eating sons of bitches are over that river dug in. Something’s brewing. I can smell it.”
“Maybe they’re going to hit us in another sector, General,” proffered the major. “Now they’ve pushed Creigh back and driven a wedge between First Army in the west and Ten Corps further east. Maybe they’re moving west to reinforce the wedge — spread it out between us.”
“I haven’t seen any sign of them moving, Major,” replied Freeman.
“Not in daylight, General. Chinks are night birds.”
“Intelligence,” put in Norton, “haven’t reported any movement west.”
“Intelligence!” snorted Freeman, his breath steaming in the air. “That’s cold comfort, Jim. Intelligence, with all that damn satellite gear, didn’t see any of them when they first hit us. They came over that river and were butchering Creigh’s men before he knew it.”
“I realize that,” said Norton, “but the intelligence boys were having trouble with their thermal sensors then, General. Sometimes when the weather gets—”
“They had trouble with their sensors, Jim, when our boys were hit in the middle of the night at the beginning of this war by two Chinese divisions. By God, we flew over the Chang-song Road yesterday. Creigh didn’t even have time to bury his head. Littered along the highway like—” He turned to the major. “I’ll tell you the first thing we’re going to do here, Major, is mount reconnaissance patrols in this area — right across the front. Day and n
ight until we find out what the hell those bastards are up to. I don’t want another Chinese breakthrough here. And another thing, Major. I want all cooking fires put out. C rations only. And a forty-eight hour ban on smoking. And start digging “Z” turns and star trenches — put all the dirt at the end of the trenches, not over the top, otherwise the Chinks’ll see the fresh soil. It’d stand out a mile in this snow. Right now my hunch is those Sons of Heaven are sitting around and having more than a political meeting. They’re dotting their maps with our positions for a night attack, making sure they know where we all are so they won’t lose their way in the razor wire.”
Gazing across at the now ice-blue fastness of Manchuria, Freeman shook his head, not at something seen but, as Norton could tell, out of respect for his enemy. “Say what you like, gentlemen, those bastards are geniuses at burrowing under the earth.” He paused. “Ever been to China, Major?”
“No, sir.”
“I was there in the nineteen eighties — before Tiananmen. Went to see the clay warriors they dug up in Xian. Full-sized— all in full battle order. They’d been there thousands of years— longer than the pyramids — and nobody knew about them till the nineteen seventies. Completely hidden. Imagine — an entire army! Emperor Qin wanted his army to guard him in death. Hadn’t been for some peanut farmer kicking up a bit of clay with his plow, they’d still be hidden. No wonder we can’t spot the tunnels from the air. It’s a contest who is better digging tunnels — Chinese or the Vietcong.”
Jim Norton rolled his eyes at the major. Freeman was good for a half hour on tunnels anytime, day or night — the ingenuity of construction, the ammunition dumps built off to the side, the traps for the unwary. Happily for Norton, the general’s lecture on the enemy’s art was interrupted by the rolling thunder of the sonic boom from four F-14s thundering high above the bleak white humps of the snow-covered hills that tumbled down toward the flats in front of the Yalu.
By the time the jets had passed overhead, the Delta HQ major had been called in by a signal corpsman with an urgent transmit from Seoul. Freeman stood watching the fighters’ contrails as they went into a tight bank to the northeast following the snaking line of the Yalu to the Tamur and the Sea of Japan. “Might be Shirer up there, Jim,” said Freeman. “Beautiful things, aren’t they?”
“Yes, sir, but I’m just as happy to leave them to the fly-boys.”
“Well,” commented Freeman, as the Delta major reappeared, “We’ll be off. Strategy’s straightforward enough. Change your internal placements, mortars, machine guns… That attack yesterday morning was probably just a probe — to pinpoint your positions. You shift things about like I told you and we’ll give ‘em a big surprise when they come up this hill again.” The major was looking worried, preferring that the general had said “if the Chinese came up the hill again. The men’s morale was bad enough after Creigh s humiliating withdrawal without confronting them with the prospect of another battle.
“You and your boys are going to have to hold these ridges, Major — till we can mount a counterattack. Chinese get up here with their artillery overlooking the next valley, they’ll make mincemeat of us. That’s what happened to Creigh — so I don’t want anybody falling back. Understood?”
“Yes, General.”
As Freeman and Norton walked down from the snowy crest toward the snow-covered, sandbagged chopper pad, the rotor slap of the Black Hawk was already fibrillating the air, curling up snow on the rim of the hill. The general heard a voice complaining above the roar of the motors. “Yeah, well, shit, man. Freeman’s same as Creigh. Won’t see ‘im do it.”
Freeman stopped, turned back into the trench, walked around the Z bend, and found himself looking at a dozen or so bleary-eyed and unshaven GIs. “What won’t you see me do, soldier?”
There was silence.
“What won’t I do?” repeated Freeman.
A GI, using his rifle like a staff, hauled himself reluctantly to his feet, his voice low, almost drowned by the sound of the chopper. “Sorry, General—”
“Won’t see me doing what, soldier?”
Norton saw the soldier visibly gulp, trying to find the spittle to answer Freeman.
“Well?” bellowed Freeman.
“Taking out a patrol—” answered the soldier. “Sir.”
Freeman was sniffing the air like a bloodhound. “Who’s wearing fairy water?” The GIs looked at one another, perplexed, several clearly frightened, a few not giving a damn, leaning sullenly against the trench. Behind the general, Norton was making a quick pantomime for the GIs — as if he were applying deodorant beneath his arm.
“Ah — me, sir,” said one of the younger, more hapless GIs.
“By God!” said Freeman, “I oughta have you skinned. You know how far a Chink can smell?”
No one answered.
“From here to Beijing. You’re endangering the safety of the whole position. A position taken out, soldier, will break the whole line. A line breached and you could cost a battle — a war. You understand?”
“Y — yes, sir.” The private saluted.
“You bury that fairy stick right now and wash out your armpits,” growled Freeman. Freeman saluted, turned to go, stopped and asked them, “Why haven’t you shaved?”
“No hot water,” said a private. “Sir.”
“Since when does one of my soldiers need hot water to shave?” Freeman challenged derisively. “Where the hell you think you are, soldier? At college?”
“No, sir.”
“You shave that fuzz off. That goes for all of you. Understand?”
There was a murmur of “yes, sir”s. No one was looking at him. His anger seemed to sear them. As he stalked off toward the helo pad, Norton increased his pace to keep up. Going down the hill, Jim Norton tapped the general before they got too close to the chopper for Freeman to hear him. “General, sir?”
“What?” Freeman shouted above the noise.
“Sir — the deodorant stick — fine, sir. They needed to be told about that. But the shaving, sir—” Norton said nothing more, his tone carrying implicit criticism.
“Damn it, Jim! Their morale’s rock-bottom. They start to lose respect for themselves, their appearance, the next is a slide into lack of self-confidence. No matter what the weaponry, Jim, you know well as I do, low morale loses wars. Good God, if Vietnam didn’t teach us anything, it taught us that.”
“I realize that, sir,” replied Norton, his voice rising to overcome the chopper, one hand holding on to his helmet. “But you told me once the Chinese have a thing about facial hair, remember — any body hair, other than where it should be. See it as the sign of a barbarian. Barbarians scare them, you said, General.”
Freeman grunted. “You’re telling me I overreacted?” Before Norton could answer, the general waved to the chopper pilot to shut her down — he was a stickler for setting the example about not wasting gas or anything else at the front. Creigh had lost over a hundred tons of supplies, along with howitzers, which hadn’t yet been replaced. Besides, he didn’t want the Chinese picking up too much of the blown snow from the chopper’s wash — to better pinpoint Delta.
“Yes, sir,” Norton told him straight, uncomfortably but fearlessly. “You did overreact, and you said if ever you did, I had your permission to—”
“Yes, yes,” said Freeman grumpily, walking away from Norton and the chopper pad, hands clasped behind him, head bowed, trudging below the line of the hill. It reminded Norton of a painting he’d seen of Napoleon on the eve of the battle for Austerlitz.
When Freeman returned from his solitary walk, his hands were on his holsters. “You’re right, Jim. I did overreact, but—” he sighed, looking over at the ice-blue hills “—those men in there think I’m a damned coward.” He looked at Norton. “A goddamn yellow belly!”
“No, sir — I’m sure—”
“Higher up the totem pole you get,” confided Freeman, his gaze taking in the long, frozen snake of the Yalu, “more you lose touch. Comman
der’s got to lead, Jim. This whole front is moribund. You could smell it in there — that wasn’t sweat, that was the odor of fear. Creigh’s defeat has passed through the whole front like diarrhea. That’ll get more men killed than Chinese bullets.” He cast his gaze in the direction of the scattered American positions on the hilltops to the west. “By God, that’s what’s wrong here, Jim. It’s a defeated army.”
“Well, maybe now, sir, but when we counterattack—”
“With what?” Freeman growled. “Troops with that kind of morale won’t do it. Hell, why should they? Creigh gets stressed out and runs. Leadership’s gone.”
“Sir, they know you were at Pyongyang, that—”
“No, Jim. That was last season. Old coach like me knows better than that. All they see now is someone flying around in this eggbeater giving ‘em the old rah! rah! rah!” He was walking away from Norton again. “No, Jim, it won’t work. This team won’t attack on the basis of my old win. Last year’s pennant. Besides, Chinese weren’t in the game then. Our boys have got goddamned dragon disease.”
Freeman was staring ahead, but Norton could see it wasn’t the North Korean fastness that arrested him, but memories.
“When I was a youngster,” Freeman confided, “my parents would take me into ‘Frisco to see the Chinese New Year celebrations. I remember the very sight of a dragon in Chinatown was more terrifying to me than anything else I could think of. Fire coming out of its nose, damned thing snaking all about. These boys are scared shitless of the Chinese. See it in their eyes.” He turned around to Norton, gloved hands on his holsters one second, right arm sweeping toward the Yalu the next. “They don’t need me for strategy here. Blind man could figure out the attack plan in five minutes. There’s the Yalu — beat the bastards back. Any first lieutenant worth his Sam Browne could figure it out. What we need is esprit de corps. And fast! That’s why they haven’t been sending out enough patrols up here to get the information we need. You can’t fight an enemy if you can’t see—” He stopped. There was fire in his eyes that Norton knew was unstoppable. “You know,” Freeman raced on, “why the Chinks want to get so close to us?”
