World in Flames wi-3

by Ian Slater

“No, thanks. Three’s a crowd. I don’t think your beau would appreciate—”

  “Beau! Honey, he’ll do what he’s told or else.”

  “No, thanks. I feel zapped anyway. I’ll wander down to the PX later on. See you there.”

  Shirley was out of the bathroom, walking back to the door and pulling on her anorak. “Well, rug up, honey. Freeze your butt off out there.”

  “I will.”

  “ ‘Bye.”

  The moment the door slammed shut, Melissa wished she’d gone with her.

  “I won’t be long,” said Killerton.

  “Fine.”

  Melissa sat down and switched on the TV, but the repairman’s presence made her feel uncomfortable. Although he seemed to be patching the leak, smoothing it off, Melissa felt he was watching her. She was starting to get annoyed, but it was really her own guilt for having requested base repairs in the fight with Stacy. She should have left it for Rick to do instead of being petty about it.

  “Worse then I thought,” said Killerton. “Wood’s rotten in here. Wormed right through.”

  “Oh?” said Melissa, uninterested, but adding politely, “Thought it’d be too cold for them.”

  “Sure, now it is, but summertime it’s hotter’n a pistol out here. No, this is old damage. I’m gonna have to fill in more holes than I thought.”

  Melissa said nothing and changed channels. A commercial for “Rocky Mountain Bottled Water” blurted out, with a jingle she despised.

  “The war’s the best thing that ever happened to ‘em,” said Killerton.

  Melissa looked over at him. He was reloading the caulking gun with a new tube, but did it with such dexterity and long experience, he didn’t even glance at it, looking at Melissa, explaining, “War’s kicked the ass out of all the Europeans. Destroyed fuckin’ Perrier, and now with most of our water poisoned — hell, Rocky Mountain can jerk us off any way they like.” He was still smiling and she was flustered. The bad language was nothing she hadn’t heard before, but he seemed to be throwing it down like a gauntlet — to see how she’d react.

  “Feeling pretty thirsty myself,” he said.

  “Would you like a Coke?” she asked, for want of anything better to say.

  “Beer if you’ve got it.”

  She went over to the kitchenette, took a Coors from the fridge, and passed it to him. Still looking at her, he tore the tab off with his teeth.

  Revolting, she thought — a big, hairy adolescent right out of Animal House. It was the kind of comment David might have made. And Rick. It was about the only thing Rick and David had in common — a disdain for the gross macho bit. Yet, try as she might, she couldn’t deny in her a sense of danger, of excitement, around Killerton. With a man like this, she knew you could let yourself go completely. Mind you, it could never be a permanent thing.

  She heard the click of the toolbox.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  When Parkin found him, David was all but unrecognizable, covered in the chalk dust from the direct hit on the castle high above the town. With only his eyes visible beneath the chalk, Brentwood would have looked comical had it not been for the broken child in his arms. He walked straight past Parkin and Monsieur Malmédy toward the first aid post set up by the Café Renoir, the child’s head, her spine snapped, lolling like a rag doll, apparently without a scratch on her, the muck and stench of body fluids causing the tiny dress to cling to her matted hair, her eyes wide open, fixed in horror. When David placed her down, taking off his tunic to cover her crumpled body, he tried to shut her eyes, but they wouldn’t. He drew the battle tunic up higher to cover her face. Old Malmédy, Parkin saw, was in tears as Brentwood lowered his head for a moment — to compose himself, to pray, or both— Parkin didn’t know which — only that when the American straightened up, he looked different. It wasn’t simply that now his tunic was off, the clean, pressed army shirt and lieutenant’s collar bars were in such sharp contrast to his bedraggled vaudevillian appearance moments before that they made him look fresher than others who had been in or near the shelter that had taken the side blast of a near hit. The difference in Brentwood’s appearance was in his eyes. They were the eyes of an old man in a young body, not wearied by age, but the determined steel blue of a man who had at one stroke lost all illusion about the fairness of life — a man who, to Parkin, looked resolved.

  “What a bastard!” said Parkin, looking down helplessly at the tiny form covered by Brentwood’s tunic. Brentwood said nothing, his eyes not moving from the girl’s body, but if there was compassion in them, it had become subsumed, his look, Parkin thought, more that of a surgeon who, along with the recognition of the tragic, seemed to be standing in judgment not only of those who had done this terrible thing but of himself, of his own behavior, his competence, of how he might have prevented it. And now he had to tell the old man who was already in tears over the young girl that his daughter, too, was dead. He put his arm about the old man, and instantly Malmédy knew it was terrible news.

  * * *

  As Parkin watched them walking down the street, seeking a moment of quiet amid the cacophony of the rescue now near fever pitch, he saw the old man stop, burying his head in his hands, unable to go on, and Brentwood standing with him, holding him for Lili.

  * * *

  Before they left Bouillon, David tried to phone Captain Smythe, but all lines were down in Bouillon following the rocket attack, and he had to wait until he reached Namur.

  * * *

  While welcoming Brentwood’s change of heart, Smythe felt obliged to tell David that it was by no means a “foregone conclusion” that he would make it into SAS.

  “Why not?” asked David. “I qualified as a marine, didn’t I?”

  “Well, yes. But I think you’ll find our Special Air Service training is somewhat different. Tell you the truth, quite a few of our Red Berets and your Navy Seals have tried and failed. It’s a very concentrated training course for what we have in mind.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Can’t tell you that, old boy. ‘Need to know.’ If you pass the course, you’ll find out.”

  Brentwood was irritated. Here he was volunteering, and now Smythe was telling him he mightn’t be good enough. And how, he wondered, could this joint British-U.S. force possibly be tougher than the U.S. Marines? What was so special about SAS training?

  “Have you ever heard of Brecon Beacons?” Smythe asked him.

  “No,” responded David. “What are they?”

  “Mountains,” said Smythe. “In Wales.” The only thing David could remember about Wales, he told Smythe, was the Prince of Wales — and an old movie where coal miners, black with soot from head to toe, came home up a hill, singing.

  “Ah!” said Smythe. “How Green was my Valley? Walter Pigeon. Well, I don’t think you’ll find there’ll be much time for singing.”

  Smythe’s remark, David Brentwood was about to discover, was a classic case of British understatement.

  * * *

  It was Christmas Eve, snowing heavily in Washington, D.C., and Gen. Douglas Freeman’s plane at Andrews Air Force Base was delayed once again, the general standing impatiently inside the hangar as the de-icing trucks rolled out and sprayed the wings once more.

  After his briefing with the president on the Korean situation, Freeman had immediately asked for the best pilot available to fly him to Honolulu, where they would have a brief refueling stopover, then on to Japan and Seoul. They had assigned a major from Andrews’ military air transport squadron, a man, they said, with more time on 747s than any other officer on duty that day. But at the last minute, Freeman, in his usually gruff and straightforward manner, asked his G-2, Colonel Norton, whether the major assigned had had any combat experience.

  “General. These people are on the Air Force One flight crews. And they’re selected to fly the president. They can fly anything from a Tiger Moth to an F-18.”

  “Norton,” Freeman said exasperatedly, his athlete’s bulk impressive even in hi
s “incognito garb,” as he called the business suit and matching serge coat. “I took you on as my G-2 because you were smart enough to spot those Soviet T-90s in the reconnaissance photos didn’t have extra fuel tanks strapped to their backs. That gave me the opening to go full steam ahead for Warsaw even though we were low on gas and the fat was in the goddamned fire, Soviet artillery pounding us left, right, and center. I also hired you then because you gave me straight answers and were willing to risk my displeasure with bad news. Now, if we’re going to keep getting along, Jim, in Korea, from here on in, you’d better tell me everything I want to know without any farting about. Otherwise we’re never gonna get those Chinks’ asses back over the Yalu, where they belong.”

  “He’s had no combat experience, sir.”

  “Then, damn it, I want someone who has! And I want him now! I don’t want to go flying in there on a wing and a prayer with someone driving this thing who hasn’t seen a Flogger coming up his ass at Mach 2 through the blind spot.”

  “Yes, sir, but we will have fighter escorts from here right on through to Seoul. Course, that doesn’t invalidate your point. I’ll get someone with combat experience.”

  “How many fighters’ll be flying escort?”

  “Twenty, sir. F-15s, Hornets…”

  “What?” bellowed Freeman. “That’s not an escort, that’s a goddamned invitation. Draw the enemy like a bear to honey. Fewer aircraft around me, the better I like it.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Norton, saluting from habit, even though the general was in civilian clothes.

  “We own the Pacific from here to Japan, don’t we?” asked Freeman.

  “With the exception of the Russian subs, yes, sir.”

  “All right then, let’s keep the bulk of the fighters away from me. Japan to Korea’s a different story. It’s catch as catch can across the Sea of Japan. So here’s what we do when we enplane from — where will it be — Hiroshima?”

  “Possibly, sir, or Matsue, if the weather’s bad on the east coast.”

  “Well, wherever — when we leave, send fighters ahead on a northwesterly course. We’ll go a few minutes later with only three fighters escort, maximum. If the Russkis do know anything about me coming — which I sincerely hope they don’t— they’ll go for our big fighter formation while we slip into Seoul. And they’ll get their tails shot off.”

  Norton, anxious to draw another pilot from the duty roster who had combat experience, nodded quickly in agreement to the general’s diversionary plan. It was typically “Freemanish”—deceptive but also putting himself in danger with little protection. All Freeman cared about was the importance of the presidential order to get to Korea as fast as possible and revive America’s military fortunes there. If he didn’t turn things around there, the entire Asian theater would collapse and give the Russians’ Far Eastern Command an unprecedented opportunity to direct all the forces it was holding in reserve against a possible American attack from Korea toward Vladivostok, toward the Aleutians — to hit America’s “back door.”

  “Besides,” added Freeman, “if this play actor they’ve got impersonating me in Brussels does his job well enough, damn Russians won’t even know we’re coming and we can just fly across under the normal patrol umbrella of the Sixth Fleet.”

  “Must say, General, that sounds like a much better way of seeing the Sea of Japan — with the Sixth Fleet below us.”

  Freeman frowned, but Norton wasn’t sure whether it was something he said or whether the general, whose pride kept him from wearing eyeglasses for his myopia, was squinting, having difficulty making out the approach of Lieutenant Harlin, the new press aide, Freeman’s regular press officer having been left in Brussels to help coordinate the impersonation/deception plan.

  “Jim, when we reach Japan, it’s no longer the Sea of Japan we’re going over. It’s the East Sea. Our South Korean allies are very touchy on that particular point. They wouldn’t give you a stick for a Nip. Historical enemies. Hadn’t been for Korean Admiral Yi in the twelfth century sinking all the emperor’s ships in the Tsushima Straits, they’d all be eating sushi in Seoul. Poor bastards. And that’s another thing, Jim. I don’t want any member of this flight — fighter pilots included — to leave the air base in Japan — wherever it is we land. They start eating all that raw fish crap, next thing we’ll have half of ‘em down with the Johnny runs.”

  “Yes, sir. Talking of Japan, it’s been suggested by the State Department that a visit to the emperor wouldn’t go astray in the interest of interallied—”

  “Goddamn it, Jim! I can’t go giving an order for everyone to stay put while I go out and eat seaweed with the emperor. Besides, what if somebody recognized me en route — never mind this Wall Street garb they’ve stuck me into. It’d compromise the whole operation. Besides, only emperor I wanted to see was Douglas MacArthur. Then he went and screwed it all up. Gave them brand-new factories — put them years ahead of Detroit, which is why the automobile industry in this country is a basket case.” Freeman paused. “You don’t agree?”

  “Never said a word, General.”

  “I can read it all over your face. Well, I’m no racist bucko. I’ll fight and the with those people. What they did for us in the early months of the war when our perimeter ‘round Pusan shrank till we didn’t have a pot to piss in was magnificent. Magnificent. But—” for a moment the general moved closer to the colonel, eyes intense “—I’ll tell you this, Jim. If there’s anything left of a command in Korea and I do push Premier Lin Zhou’s boys back across the Yalu and the Tamur, I won’t be giving Beijing new automobile factories so they can pull another economic ‘miracle’ on us. Hell, I’d give ‘em democracy, too, but they’d have to rebuild from the rubble.”

  Norton felt a flush of alarm — the “rubble” in Japan’s case had come from an atomic bomb. “You don’t mean you’d drop the bomb on the Chinese, General?”

  “When are those jokers going to have my plane ready?”

  “Excuse me, General.” Freeman turned to see his press aide and the U.S. Navy pilot, name tag “Maj. F. Shirer.”

  “You have combat experience, Major?” asked Freeman.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where?”

  “Aleutians, sir. Pyongyang.”

  “Pyongyang?”

  “Yes, sir. I flew off the Salt Lake City.”

  “Cover!” said Freeman. “For my choppers?”

  “Yes, sir,” answered Shirer, adding in a tone that spoke of pride with a flush of uncharacteristic immodesty, “Led the wing in twice.”

  “That where you got that Navy Star, Major?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, hell, son, what are you doing here?” There was a sudden tension in the air, Norton knowing that if the general thought for a moment anyone was goldbricking, he’d just as soon shoot him.

  “Beats me, sir,” Shirer told him honestly. “Apparently I’m a replacement for one of the Air Force One teams. Told me they wanted someone with combat hours, though why they chose—”

  Freeman extended his hand. “I’ve got a more important job for you than ferrying the president around.”

  The young press secretary shot a worried glance at Norton as if there might be some hidden microphone or reporter in the hangar, despite the fact that no one from the press would have been allowed anywhere near Andrews if there’d been even a suspicion that Freeman was in town.

  “What’s the mission, sir?” asked Shirer, barely able to contain his excitement at the possibility of returning to active service, maybe even the Aleutians.

  “Back to Korea,” explained Freeman, beaming. “As my pilot.”

  Shirer hesitated. “You mean — a 747?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Norton tried to send an eye code to Shirer to the effect that it wasn’t just anyone who got the job of flying the legendary Freeman back to the scene of his first glory. But the truth was that Shirer had had enough honor since he had come to Washi
ngton. What he wanted was combat. Instead he’d be jockeying the big, slow 747. If a fighter was a sports car, the 747 was a Mack truck — fully loaded. Besides, it wouldn’t take him anywhere near Lana. He also didn’t like the general calling him “son.” Though only in his late twenties, it wouldn’t be that long before they’d be retiring him from fighter duty.

  “Shirer,” said Freeman, “if you don’t want it, say so. But before you do, remember this. I’m directly responsible for implementing the president’s orders. Now, I don’t care what you think of me, but the mission is nothing less than to initiate a decisive action to win the war for us in Asia. If my hunch is right — it’ll be a commuter ride from here through Pearl and on to Japan. And it should be a breeze from there to Seoul. I’m not supposed to be here — but in Europe. All our indications are that our ruse is working, so there shouldn’t be any trouble. But there could be Red Navy units with surface-to-air missiles, and if any shooting starts, I’d like a veteran at the wheel.”

  “I’d be honored to go, General.”

  “Good man! See him aboard, Jim.”

  “Yes, General.”

  The young press aide was now alone with the general. Freeman shook his head, grinning, watching Shirer heading out through the bluish-white veil of snow toward the aircraft. “He’s about as happy to be flying that big bird as I’d be seeing the emperor.”

  “Yes, sir,” agreed the press aide, Harlin, eagerly. He had still not recovered from being assigned to the general’s staff— overawed by the general’s reputation and the scenes it evoked — of the general shooting his way room to room through the Great Hall of the People of Pyongyang, looking for his nemesis, General Kim.

  “Know why he’ll do it?” said Freeman. “Because he’s a soldier. He’s a warrior, Harbin.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Harlin, too awed to tell the general it was “Harlin,” not “Harbin.”

  “I want you to take some notes, Harbin,” ordered Freeman. “Pass ‘em on to Jim Norton soon as you finish.”

  “Yes, sir. Shoot!”