Ralph Peters

by The war in 2020

It was the turn of the aide to look shocked. It was impossible for a Japanese general to say outright that another officer, however junior, had lied.

  "He's afraid," Noburu went on, trying to explain to the younger man, to reach him. "He doesn't understand what's happening. His spirit is in Tokyo."

  "Sir," the aide said, "it is impossible to believe that these people would turn against us without provocation. First of all, we have given them everything, and, secondly, they need us. Without us—"

  "Akiro," Noburu said indulgently, "you're thinking logically." He waved his hand at the curtained window. "But the people out there ... I'm afraid they have no respect for logic."

  "It is an impossible situation," Akiro said primly. Noburu nodded, frumping his chin. "I agree."

  "We have treaties ..."

  "Yes. Treaties."

  "They will have to honor their treaties, our agreements."

  "Of course," Noburu said.

  "They cannot betray us."

  "They believe," Noburu said, "that we have betrayed them. That what the Americans did on the battlefield was our fault. When things go wrong, they don't blame their enemies, they blame their allies. It's simply the way their minds work."

  "That's inconceivable."

  "Yes," Noburu agreed.

  "They must honor the agreements."

  Noburu smiled gently at the younger man.

  "Or they will have to be taught a lesson," Akiro concluded.

  Noburu turned toward the shrouded window and raised his hands as if conducting the choir out in the dark streets. "Listen to them," he whispered. The chanting rose and fell, rose and fell. Ceaselessly. "Listen, Akiro, and tell me what you hear."

  The two men listened from their different worlds. Then Akiro said:

  "I hear the sound of a mob."

  Noburu listened a moment longer.

  "No," he told the younger man. "That is the voice of death."

  President Waters had just eaten a cheeseburger, and a damned big one. He was tired of taking advice, whether it came from the secretary of state or from the First Lady. Expert advice had gotten them all into this mess, and he did not trust the advice of those same experts to get the United States back out. He did not yet know exactly what he was going to do. But he knew he was going to make up his own mind this time.

  "The President," a voice announced.

  Everyone in the room jumped to their feet as Waters strode in. A quick glance assured the President that the key players were on hand: the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, his face a worn-out hound-dog mask, and the secretary of state, who looked like a Harvard man in his dotage—which happened to be exactly what he was. They were all there, down to that overbred cardsharp Bouquette and his plain-Jane sidekick.

  "Sit down. Everybody. Please sit down. I know you're all tired."

  "We're ready when you are, Mr. President, the national security adviser said. It was almost the only thing the man had uttered since the debacle at Orsk had become known. He had been a strong proponent of the expedition in the beginning, and now he was clearly rethinking his position.

  Waters sat down, swishing back a last ghost of flavor with the tip of his tongue. The cheeseburger had been a lascivious thing, thick and studded with bits of onion, topped with blue cheese and a shower of catsup. It had been, by God, an American meal, and Waters had devoured it proudly. He had almost fallen into the usual routine of reminding the chef not to let slip his transgressions to his wife. Then he decided to blow it off. What the hell. If the President of the United States could send his armed forces off to battle, he could damn well treat himself to a cheeseburger without congressional authorization. Blood pressure and cholesterol be damned too. If this unholy mess in the Soviet Union didn't drop him in his tracks, he doubted he would topple over at the ingestion of a cheeseburger. He only regretted that he had not had the audacity to have the chef cook up some french fries, as well.

  "Get me Colonel Taylor," Waters demanded.

  "Sir, he's standing by," the communications officer said. "Good." He turned briefly to Bouquette. "Cliff, do you have anything further on that demonstration or whatever it is down by the Japanese headquarters?"

  Bouquette rocketed to his feet. "Nothing new on the Baku situation, sir. All we have is the imagery, and from the appearance of things, I'd have to stand by our original assessment that it's an anti-American thing, whipped up by the Japanese and the Islamic Government of Azerbaijan. A response to the commitment of American forces, a demonstration of solidarity. You know how the Islamic types love to parade around the streets. And anti-Americanism is in their blood."

  Taylor's face flashed onto the communications screen. The collar of his uniform looked rumpled and stained, and, despite his facial scarring, the weary lines and dark circles were clear for all to see. But the eyes were alert.

  "Good afternoon, Colonel Taylor—what time of day is it where you are now?"

  "Night, Mr. President."

  "Yes. That's right. You're ahead of us."

  Waters paused, allowing himself time to consider Taylor. Could this man be trusted? When so many others had failed him? After one of Taylor's own subordinates had accused him of dereliction of duty and impossibly bad judgment? At any other time, Waters would have dismissed such a questionable character out of hand. But he was desperate now.

  "Colonel Taylor," Waters said, "I've had a look at the concept of operations you sent us. The chairman has done his best to explain to me what it means. But I'd like to hear it in your own words. Explain it to me the way you explained that weapons system of yours. Simple words for a simple man."

  Taylor's eyebrows edged into his scarred forehead. "Well, Mr. President, to begin with, I can't take credit for it. While I was out with my regiment today, an old acquaintance of mine was doing some thinking for me. The concept for this operation was developed by Colonel Williams of the Tenth Cavalry, based on an intelligence breakthrough one of his young officers came up with yesterday."

  Out of the corner of his eye, Waters caught Bouquette grimacing. Have to return to that, Waters thought. Then he shifted his full attention back to Taylor.

  "Mr. President," Taylor continued, "I want to be as honest with you as I can be. This is a long shot. Only the potential results make it worth attempting." Taylor briefly broke eye contact, and Waters wondered to what extent this Army officer doubted himself and his capabilities at this point.

  "It all started," Taylor said, "with a damned good piece of luck. The Japanese battlefield control computers have been considered impregnable. But a young warrant officer from the Tenth, working with his Soviet counterpart, cracked a key component the Russians had recovered from a downed Japanese control bird. I understand that you've been briefed on the matter, but let me explain it from the battlefield perspective. Using the knowledge we've already derived from this computer 'brain,' we've been able to electronically transliterate various offensive computer programs into the software alphabet that the Japanese computers will accept. Most importantly, we now have the means to enter anything we want into the Japanese system, and to do it very quickly. Of course, the Japanese have no idea about any of this, as far as we know. If we can just get to one of their main terminals before they realize they've been compromised, we could deliver a mortal blow to their system." Taylor was clearly excited by the concept, and the building fire in his voice was the only real enthusiasm the President had encountered for hours.

  "The possibilities are incredible," the colonel continued. "We can direct their system to make fatal errors. Not only can we completely disorient the enemy's control system, we can direct his weapons to attack each other. We can direct communications nodes to commit electronic suicide. We can offset every grid and coordinate in his automated mapping system. And we can actually conjure up false worlds for enemy commanders. They'll be sitting at their monitors, imagining that they're watching the battle, when in fact everything portrayed will be an illusion. And we'll be the master magicians. At the very least
, we'll destroy their faith in their electronics. We'll be altering not just the parameters of the system, but the perception of its operators." Taylor looked into the President's eyes from half a world away. "But the most beautiful part is actually the simplest. Every Japanese military system has a self-destruct mechanism built into it. It's ostensibly to prevent the gear from falling into enemy hands—but it also functions as a safeguard, in case, say, the Iranians turned against them—"

  "Never happen," Bouquette muttered audibly.

  "—then the Japanese could simply send out electronic signals to every system in Iranian hands, ordering the machines to self-destruct. The component the Russians captured has shown us how it's done. And it's easy. We may even be able to neutralize these new weapons."

  "The Scramblers," Waters said.

  "Yes, sir. The Scramblers." Taylor twisted up the side of his mouth, a half-leer in a dead face. "Unfortunately, it can only be done through a Japanese master control computer. That's the background. Here's the plan. I intend to take my command ship and a single troop of five M-l00s—manned by volunteers—on a raid against the Japanese theater headquarters at Baku. We will employ all of our deception systems going in, and, as we close, we'll jam everything in the area of operations. The Tenth Cav will be able to help us out with that. Our approach to the target will also be covered by a larger scale deception operation, as the rest of my regiment pulls out to the north. My raiding party will disappear in the noise of events. And we'll move fast. We won't be going in blind, either. The Soviets are sending me an officer who knows the layout of the Baku headquarters complex."

  Taylor paused, and the President sensed that the man was searching through a tired brain for any key factors he might have omitted.

  "We're banking on Japanese reluctance to destroy their computer system, no matter what happens," Taylor continued. "Since they don't know we've broken their code, they'll assume we couldn't access the system even if we had a year to take it apart and play with the components. Again, this system is considered to be absolutely impregnable, a sort of futuristic fortress. We'll count on going in very fast, loading in our programs, and getting out of there." Taylor stared hard at the President. "I want to do it tomorrow."

  Waters nodded noncommittally.

  "It's a long shot," Taylor admitted. "We'll have no time for rehearsals. We'll have to refuel once on the way in, and the Soviets will have to help us out on that. We won't be able to afford significant casualties—it's going to be a bare-bones operation. And we'll be counting on Japanese overconfidence so that they won't destroy the control computer and stop us in our tracks. Then, coming back out, we'll be vulnerable as hell—it appears that the Japanese can detect the M-100's signature from the rear hemisphere. Mr. President, I frankly cannot give you odds on the outcome. I'd just be guessing. We may fail. But . . . as an American soldier . . . I would be ashamed not to try." The layer of hard confidence dissolved from Taylor's features, and he simply looked like a vulnerable and very tired man. "Mr. President, we beat them today. We destroyed their finest forward-deployed systems. Their central Asian front is in a state of collapse." Taylor was obviously fumbling for the words to explain his view of the world. "The only thing that's holding them together now is the success of this new weapon."

  "The Scramblers," Waters said, retasting the word. "Yes, sir. Otherwise, we've got them licked. You see, sir, in war ... the loser is often simply the first guy to quit. Time and again, commanders have assumed that they've been defeated when, in fact, they were in far better condition than their enemies. We know how badly we've been hurt. But it's always harder to gain an accurate perception of the true state of the enemy." Taylor's eyes burned and begged across the miles. "Mr. President, just give us a chance. Let's not quit. Try to remember what it was like for our country after the African intervention, when everything seemed like it was coming apart. It's been a long, hard road back. But we're almost there. Let's not quit while there's still a chance."

  Waters sucked his teeth. "Colonel Taylor," he said, "do you really believe you have a chance to pull this off?"

  "Yes, sir. A chance."

  "Nobody else seems to think so. The experts here don t think you could even get halfway."

  "Sir, I know what my men and my machines can do. I saw it today."

  "The Soviets want to quit," Waters added, "and, while I certainly do not want to belittle our losses, the Soviets have lost a substantial urban population and a regional population they haven't even begun to count. I even understand that the city—Orsk, was it?—was crowded with refugees from the fighting to the south. I'm not certain I could convince them of the wisdom of this move, even if I liked the idea myself."

  "Mr. President," Taylor said, "I can't respond to that. All I can tell you is that I do not think the time has come to surrender."

  "Now"—the secretary of state jumped in—"we're not talking about a surrender. The options under discussion are disengagement, an open withdrawal from the zone of conflict under mutual or multilateral guarantees, or, perhaps, a transitional ceasefire in place, to be followed by international regulation of the problem."

  "Whatever words you use," Taylor said coldly, "it's still a surrender."

  "George," the chairman of the JCS interrupted, "you re overstepping your bounds. Considerably."

  Taylor said nothing.

  Waters wanted to know what this battered-looking warrior really had to offer. Was there any genuine substance behind the disguise of the uniform?

  "Colonel Taylor," Waters said, "I've even had a report from one of your subordinates, a Lieutenant Colonel Reno, that suggests you may not be competent for the position you presently hold. He makes it sound as though you had a pretty bad day."

  Taylor's face remained impassive. "Mr. President, if you have any doubts about my performance, you can court-martial me after this is all over. Right now, just let me fight."

  Waters measured the man. For a moment, Taylor was more immediate, more absolutely present in the room, than were any of the flesh-and-blood advisers. Time suspended its rules, and Waters slipped into old visions, accompanied by the aftertaste of a cheeseburger.

  "Colonel Taylor," the President said slowly, "have you ever been bitten by a police dog?"

  "No, sir."

  "Neither was I. But my father was. Marching down a road in Alabama, with empty hands and a head full of dreams. They sent in the dogs ... and my father was bitten very badly. It was a long time ago. I was not born in time to see those things. But my father had a powerful command of our language. When he described the fear he felt facing those dogs, well, his listeners felt it too. The dogs chewed him until he ran with blood. Yet, the very next day, he was out there again, marching and singing. He was even more afraid than he had been before, but, as he never tired of telling me, it might have been a very different world if he and just a few other frightened young men and women had given up." Waters tapped a pencil against an empty china cup. "My father . . . did not live to see his son become President of the United States. He died of Runciman's disease while I was off giving congressional campaign speeches to dwindling audiences. But I know that he would expect me to face those dogs today." Waters laid down the pencil and considered the image of Taylor on the screen. "The only problem is that I'm not quite sure what that means in this context. Does 'facing the dogs' mean sending one Colonel Taylor and his men back into battle with their sabers drawn—or is that merely avoidance, sending other men to face the dogs for me. Perhaps . . . facing the dogs means taking responsibility for my own bad decisions and cutting our losses."

  "Mr. President," Taylor said flatly, "to quit now would be cowardice."

  "That's enough, Colonel," the chairman said.

  Waters merely nodded and looked down at his empty hands. They were smooth and unmarred by physical labor. Or by animal teeth.

  "Colonel Taylor," he said, "I have to make a decision. I'm not going to keep you hanging on any longer than necessary. We're going to drop you off the n
etwork now, but I want you to be standing by in exactly thirty minutes. I'm going to go over everything one last time with the people in this room, then I'll give you my answer—oh, by the way—you didn't mention the disturbances in Baku in your plan. Have you seen the imagery?

  "Yes, sir."

  "And what do you think about it? Doesn't that complicate your operation?"

  "Not necessarily. In fact, the demonstrations may provide us with a very good local diversion, if they continue. The Japanese must be worried as hell about their coming over the wall."

  Waters pursed his face into a quizzical expression. "What do you mean by that? What do you think those demonstrations are all about?"

  "Well," Taylor said, "my S-2 thinks it's pretty clear. And I agree with him. The Japanese are learning the same lesson we had to learn the hard way. In Teheran.

  Waters thought for a moment. "Then you believe those demonstrations are anti-Japanese?"

  Taylor looked surprised by the question. "Of course. It's obvious."

  Waters nodded, pondering this brand-new slant. Thank you, Colonel Taylor. You'll be hearing from me in thirty minutes."

  Taylor's image faded from the screen.

  For a moment, there was a dull silence, reflecting the inertia of weary men. Then the secretary of state shook his patrician head in wonder.

  "The man's crazy," he said.

  "Good to see you, Tucker," Taylor said, rising to meet his old comrade. He tried to call up a smile, but an important part of him remained with the President, awaiting a decision.

  "What the hell, George, you're looking ugly as ever." Colonel Williams extended his hand.

  Taylor held out his bandaged paw.

  Williams hesitated to accept it. "What the hell happened to you this time, George?"

  Taylor went the extra distance and grasped Williams's hand, shaking it firmly.

  "My own stupidity," Taylor said. "Minor stuff. I just wanted to make sure I collected another Purple Heart."

  Williams laughed, but the sound was buried under the racket of the tactical operations center. The regiment had established its headquarters in a small network of field shelters near Orenburg, in Assembly Area Platinum. The facility offered good camouflage, light ballistic protection, and no defense whatsoever, should the new Japanese weapons descend through the darkness. The staff worked hectically, as was the American custom, and no one seemed bothered by the threat of a Scrambler attack. The weapons were so overpowering that men quickly blocked them out of their immediate consciousness, as soldiers from an earlier generation had done with nuclear weapons, or as men had learned to do with the plague.