by Ian Slater
The two Group Armies dispatched from the Tacheng subdistrict in Lanzhou, one of China’s seven military regions, met only sporadic resistance in the form of AK-47-toting Muslim Urghurs. The latter used Red Arrow antitank guided missiles, which, despite multiple firings whose backblasts and burned solid-propellant blossomed and crisscrossed in the dusty air, took out only eight of the PLA’s upgunned T-69s. These Russian-made PLA tanks, with their laser-sighted 125mm cannons, decimated forty-two of the Muslim rebels’ old Russian 100mm T-55s, whose three-rounds-a-minute and thousand-meter range could not stand up to the bigger bore, six-rounds-a-minute T-69s. And this despite the fact that many of the Kazakhstanis’ old Soviet T-55s had been equipped with reactive armor. The terrorists and nationalists in the Kazakhstani forces had placed high hopes in the reactive armor, whose explosive slabs would detonate when hit by a PLA’s T-69 armor-piercing discarding sabot round. But inferior manufacture of the reactive armor meant that it failed to stop the APDS’s ten-pound, foot-long dart from penetrating the Kazakhstanis’ T-55.
In Kazakhstan’s new capital, Astana, 390 miles northwest of China’s invasion — or “policing incursion,” as Beijing preferred to call it — the ruling Communist party boss, a sullen pro-Russian leftover of the Cold War and the Soviet Union’s collapse, did not join the Muslims or the PLA, afraid of the deep and still active Muslim hatred of Russia and the PLA’s institutionalized distrust of Moscow. Besides, the Muslims made up almost half the city’s population, and the most radical elements were known to make common cause with China’s Muslim Urghurs. What the Communist party boss did do, however, was try to contact the elusive Li Kuan. The party boss had connections with old comrades in Russian nuclear facilities who had difficulty making enough money to put bread on the table.
Later that day, in Washington, D.C., the President expressed outrage at the PLA’s violation of Kazakhstan’s territorial integrity and said he had called in the Chinese ambassador. China’s two Group Armies were now fifty miles into the arid steppe of Kazakhstan and kept advancing, albeit slowly, determined to rout every Muslim terrorist out of every crack and cave. The aim was to form a buffer zone between the two countries and secure the vital oil and rail lines between the two from terrorist sabotage, which Beijing said was clearly in both Kazakhstan’s and China’s national interests.
The U.S. State Department and the White House, in rare agreement, were secretly reaching the same conclusion, despite the President’s public expression of dismay. The surge of over a hundred thousand Chinese regulars over the Xinjiang-Kazakhstan border was alarming to some of Foggy Bottom’s experts, but a state of open rebellion in China that could ensue should Beijing fail to go after the terrorists was a much worse scenario. As Eleanor Prenty, National Security Advisor, knew, in every administration — indeed in any government — stability won out against chaos every time.
“If you think Yugoslavia breaking up was complex,” she told the President, “imagine what the disintegration of Xinjiang would be like.” She paused to take out the map of Central Asia she’d had faxed over from State. “There are fourteen national minorities over there,” she continued. “Sooner or later, amid all the Muslim rioting, we’d be caught up in it because of our base at Manas in nearby Kyrgyzstan.”
“But,” said the President, always insistent on playing devil’s advocate in his decision-making, “Muslim rioting might break out across all the Stans because the Chinese have crossed the border.”
“Granted,” conceded Eleanor. “There could be widespread rioting throughout the Stans and the Muslim world in general. But if Beijing fails to act decisively and go in now after the terrorists’ staging areas, it’d be like us sitting still and doing nothing after 9/11. That vital section of rail track destroyed by that terrorist bomb was over two miles long.” Eleanor glanced down at her SATRECON report. “Two point six miles, to be exact. And all in one hit, Mr. President — not sequential explosions. We have our problems with Beijing — the perennial human rights issues, especially in Tibet, versus our pro-China trade lobby, who keep arguing, with some merit, that the best way to improve human rights in China is to trade more with them, engage them economically. Beijing’s been careful not to announce its intention to cross the border because it would have brought out every human rights activist, and no doubt the Europeans, telling us we should step in, through the U.N.”
“And,” put in the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Sam Wentworth, “the last thing we want, Mr. President, is a war on more than one front. Afghanistan and Iraq were quite enough for us to handle. It’d be a logistical nightmare, no matter how small the operation. I’m with Eleanor on this one. It’s China’s war on terrorism. And to put it quite bluntly—”
“You ever put it any other way, Sam?” There were smiles from the other armed services chiefs.
“I guess not, Mr. President,” the chairman responded gracefully. “My point is, the PLA’s strike into Kazakhstan takes the heat off us militarily all the way to the southwest in the Hindu Kush and gives the Euros someone other than the U.S. to whine about.”
“Euros? You’re excluding Great Britain, I hope.”
“Of course,” said the chairman, it being a particular point of gratitude in the White House that Britain and most of the British Commonwealth countries, particularly Australia, had stood by America’s side in past crises.
“Well then, we’re agreed,” said the President. “We continue with normal expressions of concern. Beyond that, wait and see.”
“The Russians’ll be pissed,” warned Wentworth. “Former republic and all that.”
The President shrugged. “Do they want to be in NATO or not? Besides, they’re no fonder of terrorists than we are. They don’t like the Chinese, but they want a steady oil flow. Stability.”
“Thank God,” interjected Eleanor Prenty, “we had unofficial warnings about China’s intended move and weren’t taken by surprise.”
The President nodded. “That girl, Riser—”
“Yes, sir, Mandy Riser.”
“This country owes her a lot.”
“Yes,” agreed CIA head John Norris, who was ever ready to protect his agency’s turf in the bureaucratic war spawned by the White House’s push to consolidate intelligence agencies after 9/11 into a new giant Department of Homeland Defense. “But the agency had heard other unofficial signals of the Chinese build-up in the Northwest.”
“I meant,” said the President, “her hearing that this slimebag Li Kuan was working in Kazakhstan. Your agency dropped the ball on that one. Thought he was in some damned cave in Afghanistan?”
“We’re sure he was there, Mr. President. But he got out before we could nail him.”
“Like bin Laden. Well, how’d he get to Kazakhstan so quickly?”
Norris explained that if Li Kuan had gotten to Istanbul or Pakistan, he could have caught a Pakistani Air flight to Astan in a matter of hours.
“Well, whatever, but it was that poor girl who gave us the intel that the bastard was in Kazakhstan. And we know now after the rail line hit that Li Kuan’s clients there have quite a conventional explosives wallop. If he manages to sell them the slag for a dirty nuclear bomb, we’re all in trouble. Let’s hope the Chinese get him.”
“Yessir.”
Norris was tempted to explain that it had been the Chinese General Chang who had actually told Charlie Riser, the U.S. cultural attaché in Beijing, that Li Kuan was reported in Kazakhstan, but he didn’t press the point. It would have seemed too pedantic.
“John,” the President said to Norris, “how are our Chinese surveillance flights going? Any problems?” The President could never bring himself to call the Aries II surveillance flights what they were — U.S. spy missions. One of the Lockheed Martin Aries had been shot down in April 2001, the crew held as POWs for a while by the Chinese.
“Flights are doing fine, sir. Chinese don’t like ’em, of course. Keep sending up MiGs to try and intimidate our boys.”
“Okay, but tell our Air
Force guys to be careful. Last thing we need is another international incident now.”
“Yessir.”
As the meeting ended, the President, heading off for a press conference, asked the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, “How many men did we lose in that Li Kuan mission?”
“Seven, sir. Six Special Forces on the ground. One from the chopper, a medic, during evac.”
The President’s jaw clenched as he shook his head. “Only one survivor, then?”
“Yes, sir. Ex-Medal of Honor guy. David Brentwood.”
“Ex?” said the President.
“Yes — ah, well, yes. Story is, he choked.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ten minutes after the President had given his televised press conference the switchboard received a call from retired general Douglas Freeman, the George C. Scott lookalike who had been conscripted from the “retired” list to go on a sponsored goodwill tour for the troops in Afghanistan.
The general knew very well that his ad hoc phone call from Tora Bora was definitely not the way to make contact with the White House. Retired officers, even four-star generals, were supposed to follow normal channels, like everyone else. Write a letter. But even as a young officer, long before he had become a legend and what was known as a perennial PITA — pain in the ass — to Washington’s bureaucrats, Douglas Freeman had adopted Von Rundsted’s advice to an up-and-coming Wehrmacht oberleutnant, namely, that “normal channels are a trap for officers who lack initiative.”
“White House. How may I direct your call?”
“Yes,” said Freeman forcefully. “General Freeman here. I’d like to speak to the President. He knows who I am.”
That was the problem; the President certainly did know about the general, who, though retired, felt free, “like any other goddamned citizen,” as the general once put it, to give advice to the CEO who ran the world’s only superpower. Freeman wasn’t an arrogant man, but he was known to be as persistent as an M1, America’s main battle tank, the kind he had led during the famous winter battle in which, outnumbered by Russian-made T-80s, he’d ordered a running retreat in what was initially regarded by his men and an appalled Pentagon watching on live satellite feed as a blatant act of cowardice.
The operator directed the general’s call to Public Relations, who in turn promised to connect him to a presidential aide.
“Presidential aide? I don’t want some damn gofer who picks fluff off the President’s suit. This is a matter of national urgency, goddammit!”
“I’ll direct your call to Ms. Prenty’s office. She’s our National Security—”
“Yes, I know who she is. I gave a visiting lecture to her IR course at Emory in Vir—”
Ms. Prenty was “unavailable.” Would the general leave his number, and a member of her staff would—
“Goddammit!” exploded Freeman, slamming down the phone. Two minutes later he called back. It took him four more White House operators to reach the one he’d sworn at. She’d sounded so young. “May I ask your name, ma’am?”
“I’m Operator Eight, General.”
“Yes, well, look, I apologize for my rudeness.” A long, long silence. Goddammit, she wants me on my belly, thought Freeman, like Eisenhower wanted Patton on his belly before he’d forgive the general for slapping a soldier he’d accused of cowardice in Sicily. Patton sent Ike a damn turkey — big son of a bitch — for Christmas. Didn’t make any difference. Ike kept him out in the cold. Freeman knew he had the same problem. Temper. But goddammit — He took a deep breath. “Us older guys get a bit cranky now and then. Sorry.”
“Old or not, General”—the bitch, he’d said older, not old—“it’s still no excuse for rudeness.”
“No, no, it isn’t. You’re quite right.” Then a short shot of his own. “Operator Eight, you’re quite right. My profoundest apology. I’d be very grateful if you’d have one of Eleanor’s people call me back.” The “Eleanor” should help, he thought.
“Your name again, Colonel? Nicholas Feedman?”
Colonel—
Operator Eight heard an expulsion of air like a tire deflating. “Name is Freeman,” the tightly restrained voice answered her. “General Douglas Freeman, as in ’land of the free and the home of the brave,’ “ which if you want to help keep it free, you dozy dame—
“Would you like her voice mail, Colonel?”
“I’ll call back!”
Old! she’d said. He was sixty, for crying out loud. Douglas MacArthur was still active at seventy-two. Younger generation didn’t know a damned thing. Appallingly ignorant of the past, both geographically and politically. He recalled the young woman on NBC’s Late Show who’d thought it was the French who had attacked Pearl Harbor. And NBC hired her later as a reporter! So how in hell could they be expected to know who he was, about the stunning victory he’d pulled off years before during the U.N. intervention in the Russian taiga, a victory so brilliantly executed, so particularly reliant on his command of the minutiae and sweep of military history, that his exploit had fired the imagination of every soldier in the army.
One of those soldiers had been a young lieutenant called David Brentwood, who had gone on to win the coveted thirteen gold stars on the pale blue ribbon that signified he had joined the hallowed hall of warriors, the elite. Some wore the medal easily, part of a willingness to take life as it came to them; others, like Brentwood, accepted it with deep reservation born of a private conviction that in another place, at another time, they might just as easily have disgraced themselves. And now Freeman had heard that Brentwood was here at Tora Bora.
David Brentwood lay in the MASH’s post-op recovery tent, his right arm wrapped in virgin-white bandages, his bloodshot blue eyes squinting out through the triangle of his tent door up into the hard blue of the Afghan sky and the distant Hindu Kush. Brentwood had already court-martialed himself. He was too intelligent to wallow in the charge of cowardice — he knew he’d done his best. But he was guilty of something. Any mission leader who takes in six of the most highly trained men on earth and loses every one of them, plus the helicopter medic … Yes, he knew the medic probably would have survived if he’d been wearing his Kevlar helmet, which undoubtedly would have protected his head from the impact of the falling rocks. David dragged himself up higher against the pillows, his pajamas soaked through with perspiration. They’d given him a couple of Oxycodone pills three hours before, but the pain that even military physicians, who should have known better, insisted on calling “discomfort” because it made them feel better, was so intense, he felt on the verge of passing out.
Normally, he would have been delighted to see his old commander among the visiting morale-boosting USO party. But this day, as he saw a Humvee approaching along the Afghan plain then coming to a stop in a rush of gritty dust that swept in front of the vehicle, enveloping his tent, the pain of his wound assailed the Medal of Honor winner and temporarily rendered him speechless when he spotted the unmistakable figure of Douglas Freeman emerging ghostlike from the cloud. By way of compensating, he gave the general an awkward left-handed salute.
Freeman, wearing his Afrika Korps cap, returned the salute with the familiar swagger stick he’d been given as a token of appreciation by members of the British Special Air Services. He had known the renowned but publicity-shy elite British commandos long before they’d unwittingly burst upon the world’s consciousness in London on May 5, 1980, executing the perfect and dramatically televised takedown of hostage-holding terrorists in the Iranian embassy. Following the example of U.S. Colonel Beckwith, Freeman had always insisted his Special Forces teams be involved in joint Delta/SAS exercises in the grueling terrain of Wales’s Brecon Beacons, as well as in Fort Benning, Georgia.
“To the bone, I hear?” said Freeman, indicating David’s bandaged right arm as he took off his Afrika Korps cap. Putting it down on the end of the bed, he remained standing and unsmiling.
Given his pain, David found talking difficult, and his tone was uncharacteristically apo
logetic. “One or two places—” he told the general. “Splinters. It’ll mend.”
“Witch doctors tell me you’re finished for combat.”
“That’s what they think. I need to get my hands on an—” He winced with the effort. “—on an F2000.”
Freeman merely nodded, his manner affirming nothing more than that he was familiar with the revolutionary Belgian assault rifle. Designed for the new world disorder in which a soldier one minute might be a U.N. policeman helping to maintain enough order to distribute food in some drought-ravaged third world country, and in the next be engaged in a vicious firefight with rebels, the 5.56mm weapon had been designed to accommodate snap-on, snap-off modules for different situations and to accommodate these modules quickly and easily. In this way, the F2000 avoided having many of the fixed add-ons that gave so many other modern weapons a “Christmas tree” look. There were other snap-on, snap-off assault weapons, but Freeman knew immediately why David was hoping for the ergonomically designed Belgian piece. The F2000 was not only well-balanced and easy to carry, but was “ambidextrous amenable” in both firing and carrying mode, the cocking handle being on the left of the receiver. The relatively light — less than eight pounds — twenty-seven-inch-long rifle was especially suited for combat in Central Asia. In this vast region, where weapons themselves were under constant assault by the fine grit of dust storms sweeping out of the Gobi and other deserts, the F2000, whose access points, including its cocking slot, were sealed, was the natural choice.
“It doesn’t look pretty,” said Freeman. David thought the general meant his bandaged arm, until he continued, “But it’s compact and does the job. Clip-on grenade launcher. Thirty-round M16 pattern mag.”
“Yes.”
There was an awkward pause, David ending it with, “Has a fire control system they say is foolproof.”
