by Ian Slater
Freeman raised an eyebrow and looked down at the young aide, offering him a stick of gum.
“No, thank you, sir.”
“Last chance you’ll have between here and Korea. We’re going to be at the front, Mr. Harbin, not sitting on our butts in Seoul in that sewer staring up at the big board.” He meant the subterranean HQ operations-shelter complex beneath Seoul. “And at the front, a Commie can smell a stick of gum half a mile upwind. Now, first thing I want you to put down on that pad of yours — distribution, all commanders down to battalion and company level — is that I don’t want anybody pulling back from anywhere. The second thing is — you getting all this, Harbin?”
“Yes, General.”
“Good. Second order is that ammunition is not to be wasted. At present we have an effective ammunition usage rate of twenty — thirty percent tops. This constitutes a seventy to eighty percent consumption rate — fired in panic and it’s got to stop. My G-2’ll want to see all AURs—” The press aide stopped writing.
“Ammunition usage reports,” explained Freeman. “And if anybody’s just shooting for the hell of it, he’ll have to answer to me personally.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Course,” said Freeman, smiling, “an order like that’s impossible to police, but I want our boys to get the general idea. Capiche?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’re in a winter battle,” Freeman went on, his voice rising above the wild spitting hiss of the de-icing sprays. “Those Nangnim Mountains are going to be rough. Peaks well over six thousand feet. Next order is, I want hot food chuted in and chopper-dumped wherever possible. Though, of course, that won’t be possible at the front.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Next thing. Memo to the entertainment officer in Seoul. I don’t want any Communist propaganda film shown in any unit — and that includes hospital units in Seoul.” The press aide was nonplussed. He doubted very much whether entertainment officers would ever do such a thing, even if they were KGB plants, which you couldn’t discount, given the paranoia sweeping the States in the wake of the poisoned water crisis and other sabotage.
“By that,” Freeman explained, “I mean that I don’t want any goddamned Hanoi Jane movies. Got it?”
The lieutenant, in his early twenties, wasn’t familiar with the actress’s name. “Are they bad movies, General?”
“Bad! Harbin, the only goddamn picture I want to see Ms. Fonda in is a cartoon of her ass being blown to pieces by one of those guns she sat on in Hanoi when she was calling our boys war criminals! And another thing. I don’t want any MASH reruns. You know what I’m talking about — old, funny Hawkeye with all the jokes about the futility of war and the mad American generals. If it wasn’t for mad American generals like MacArthur and Ridgeway, there’d be no funny Hawkeyes in Hollywood. They’d all be munching rice, Harbin, and a lot of South Koreans would now be fertilizing the paddies of the North with their bones. Trouble is with MASH, it was an antiwar film against Vietnam policy set in Korea, but our boys won’t make that kind of distinction, Harbin. Too young to remember Korea. I don’t want them sabotaged in the rear by those long-haired weirdos that did us in over Vietnam. And I’ll tell you another thing, Harbin. North Vietnam’s one of the poorest, most oppressive countries in Asia. That’s why there’s no MASH II.”
The hapless press aide was glad to see Colonel Norton returning from the 747, informing Freeman, “All set to go in twenty minutes, General. They’re sending a crew bus to take you out rather than an official car — case there’s some press hanging around the—”
“Never mind that, Jim,” said Freeman. “Nothing wrong with my legs. Let’s go, Harbin. What’s the flight schedule, Jim? How many hours?”
“Twenty plus, sir, allowing for refueling in Hawaii and Japan.”
“Forecast?”
“Snow from here to the Midwest, General, but then clearing up as we get to Hawaii. From then on, it gets better.”
“Good. Harbin!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Notice you don’t use a plate between those note pages.”
Harlin didn’t know what to make of it and looked over to Norton for help, but the colonel’s head was down against the fine-grained snow that was bouncing off them like uncooked rice.
“Piece of aluminum,” explained Freeman, striding ahead. “Don’t use cardboard. Plastic if you like. But never write any of my orders down without a separating pad between the pages. You put the top ones in the burn basket as a matter of course, but more than one sergeant I’ve known has been reading his CO’s confidential memos, holding the second page up to the light. That happens in my command and you’ve got a free ride to nowhere. Understand?”
“Yes — yes, sir,” answered Harlin.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Freeman. “But you see, son, any fool can figure out the big plans. Only have to look at a map. It’s the details, Harbin. The details. That’s what wins or breaks the day.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll remember.”
“I know you will. Now, you just relax. We’re gonna have that big bird all to ourselves. Coca-Cola machines. Everything. More electronics on that baby than you can shake a stick at. Next thing you know, we’ll be in the land of the rising sun. Ever been to Japan, Harbin?”
“No, sir.”
“Beautiful country. That right, Jim?”
“Sure is, General.”
“You eat sushi, Harbin?”
“Ah—” He thought the general had said “shoosh.”
“Raw fish,” explained Norton.
“No — I–I don’t believe I have, General. Didn’t have any of that in Idaho.”
“Just as well. Mightn’t be here today if you did. Goes through you like crap through a goose. Sucks all the energy out of your legs. That right, Jim?”
“That’s right, General. Though I must say I’ve never had any trouble with—”
“Don’t contradict me, goddamn it!”
“No, sir.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“Do we know for certain?” asked President Suzlov.
Soviet head of KGB Vladimir Chernko was equivocal. “Not absolutely, Premier — I mean Mr. President.” Despite his support of President Gorbachev during the latter’s years of decline, Chernko had always found it difficult to address subsequent leaders as “president” rather than the old pre-Gorbachev “premier.” “Our agent, one of the best in Brussels, said the car was unmarked — a Mercedes en route to the airport. No fanfare, no motorcycle escorts. But a glimpse of Freeman stepping out. It’s Freeman’s style, President.”
“What?” challenged Suzlov. “To slip out in the middle of the night? Hardly, Comrade. I thought he was a prima donna. Likes to be seen.”
“Unquestionably, Comrade President,” said Chernko. “Publicly — and I suppose for that matter, privately, but he’s no fool. He is the most brilliant tactician the Americans have. Anywhere. A master of the unexpected. Everyone thought this would be a war of high mobility and technology. That the so-called technological imperative would dictate strategy. But this Freeman has obviously mastered more than technical manuals. His grasp of tactics and of tactical details is legendary among his troops. We know now that the Pentagon thought he was mad when he presented the plan for Pyongyang — an airborne assault. At night — precisely when the American and South Korean forces were in full retreat. Therefore it is logical in my opinion that they would shift him back to Korea now the Chinese have crossed the Yalu. He knows the country.”
Suzlov remained unconvinced. “Yes, Comrade Director, but another of your agents is reporting that Freeman is still in Europe — going between Brussels and the front. He may be a first-rate commander, Comrade, but he’s not a magician.”
Suzlov turned away in his swivel chair, banks of white phones behind him, and looked over at the picture of Lenin. “He can’t be in two places at once. And why would the Americans give him a new command when his offensive against us is going so well in Europe?�
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“Their supply line from the French ports to our Polish/Russian front is now over seventeen hundred kilometers, Mr. President. It’s true they have aerial superiority and their armored divisions have moved within striking distance of Minsk, but we are having increasing success where it ultimately counts — with our submarines. In the Pacific and the Atlantic, they’re about to turn the tide.”
“Are you that confident, Comrade?” asked Suzlov while studying Lenin’s photograph as if he had never really seen it before.
“Yes,” came the reply from Director Chernko. “If our submarines continue to stop the supplies, we will win. The mathematical equation is simple — no supplies, no advance. Meanwhile we are also reinforcing our supplies along the Trans-Siberian to Khabarovsk and Vladivostok. And now China’s entry has diverted what would have been NATO supplies from America to Korea, this takes even more pressure off our western front. If the Americans are beaten in Korea, we’ll be free to move our Sino-Soviet divisions for a final push against the Aleutians. It’s no wonder Washington is sending this Freeman back to Korea.”
“Perhaps,” responded Suzlov, “but you can never be sure what the Chinese will do. They will make peace and war when it suits them. Our situation will not influence them either way. They are strictly allies of convenience. You know this. If we falter anywhere in the Eastern Theater — they will cross the Amur into our territory and gobble up what they can. Look at Khabarovsk. Sabotage is already taking place there and we can’t seem to stop it.”
“We will,” Chernko promised him. “But back to Freeman. It makes sense for the Americans to give Freeman the Korean command. The snow is deep in Western Europe, and neither side, apart from the air forces, will be making much of a move until the spring. It is an ideal opportunity for them to recall their senior commander for ‘consultation.’ We also do this when—”
Suzlov turned abruptly away from the table, and began pacing down past the long, baize-topped table where the STAVKA high command sat during the long day and night sessions in the enormous complex of the Council of Ministers building. Suzlov was considering the number of fighters the director was requesting, based on air force estimates of what Chernko’s plan would need. Most of them would probably be shot down by either American or Japanese fighters. The bulk of the Soviet fighters might evade radar on a low run in from the Russian airfields at Vladivostok, but the rotodomes of the American Hawkeye electronic surveillance planes from the U.S. carriers in the Sea of Japan would pick them up before they intercepted Freeman’s plane. If indeed it was Freeman who had left Brussels en route to Washington, D.C., and then possibly on to South Korea.
To make it more difficult for Suzlov, the distance, he discovered, between Vladivostok to Seoul was twelve hundred kilometers. MiG Flogger C interceptors with a combat radius of twelve hundred kilometers would need drop tanks, thus slowing their speed significantly, to say nothing of their maneuverability — at least on the way in. Still, the target, Suzlov had to admit, was irresistible. If they could get confirmation from their Japanese agents of Freeman’s arrival in Japan, and attack him en route to Korea, his death would be a stunning victory.
America would be devastated by the loss of her most able field commander, and at a time when she desperately needed him, if her troops in Korea were not to suffer another humiliation at the hands of the Chinese-NKA legions. And the psychological effect of Freeman’s death in Europe would be almost as dramatic, and help tilt the odds in favor of the Soviet Union.
“If we are to do it,” said Suzlov, “we must have the best. All volunteers.”
“That doesn’t necessarily bring us the best, Comrade President.”
“Oh?” said Suzlov, looking genuinely surprised. The president turned back to his desk and globe, contemplating the Korean Peninsula. It had been a constant thorn in the Soviet side. First it was Kim Il Sung using millions of rubles in foreign aid to build towering bronze statues of himself all over Pyongyang, and his son, Kim Il Jong, determined to keep the “dynasty,” as Gorbachev had once referred to it, going. And now there was talk that General Kim, hero of the North Korean invasion of the South, once in disgrace due to the success of Freeman’s Pyongyang raid, was now back in command of all North Korean forces along with Zhou Li, supreme commander of the PLA’s northern armies.
Kim was no more likable, in Suzlov’s opinion, than Kim Il Jong and Co., but at least he was convinced that for North Korea, allegiance to Moscow was as important as allegiance to Beijing — unlike Il Jong and Il Sung, who had been stunned by Gorbachev’s criticism of their self-glorification. Freeman’s death would also have the advantage of impressing Kim that allegiance to Moscow was not, as Beijing not so subtly charged, “less important” because of North Korea’s closer proximity to China. It would demonstrate that in matters of technology, the kind of technology it would take to kill Freeman, the Soviet Union was light years ahead of China.
“Very well,” said Suzlov. “Go ahead, but only if we get positive confirmation of Freeman arriving and leaving Japan.”
Chernko rose matter-of-factly, thanking Suzlov but careful not to be effusive, too ingratiating — it wouldn’t do for Suzlov to get too big for his boots. Besides, Suzlov had not impressed Chernko by his willingness to accept Chernko’s statement that volunteers are not always the best. They were, of course— provided basic military criteria were met — but Chernko’s comment that they weren’t always so had been calculated to give him leverage against another member of the STAVKA, Marchenko, another comrade who was getting too big for his boots. In return for Chernko not ordering the Far Eastern Air Force Command at Khabarovsk to assign Marchenko’s son, Sergei, to fly on the top secret and highly dangerous mission, the director knew that he would incur an implicit, yet clearly understood, IOU from Marchenko Senior.
Or so he believed.
* * *
In Khabarovsk, Gen. Kiril Marchenko strolled with his son Sergei outside the hardened shelters of the fighter squadrons. At six feet, the general was half a foot taller than his son, and in his general staff uniform, looked more impressive. He was conscious of the fact that throughout their relationship, his rank had intimidated Sergei, but he doubted that this still held true, now that his son had become one of the Soviet Union’s most decorated fighter pilots. The general would have preferred to be inside the base HQ in the warmth of the operations room than strolling outside, but he did not want to be overheard. This was as much a family matter as a military one. Pulling up the collar of his greatcoat, his breath steaming in the Arctic air that had swept down from Siberia, he gazed up for a moment at the stars, their brilliance in the clear air astonishing after the pollution of Moscow. “You should have had more sense,” he told Sergei.
“I’m a man,” replied Sergei unapologetically. “It isn’t exactly unnatural.”
“I’m not talking about that,” said Kiril. “Of course a man gets lonely. Needs the company of — I understand your feelings.” He hesitated, then added, “… Especially after your experience in the Aleutians. A close brush with death often does that to a man. Stirs up the blood. This is quite normal. But a Jew? You know how they are, no matter what they say. Even that fool Gorbachev understood that much. Why do you think he let so many of them go?”
“Then why are you so worried?” retorted Sergei. He felt good — a combination of his status as an ace, the tailored dress uniform under the greatcoat, the weight of the coat, made by one of the Jews from the autonomous regions, fitting perfectly, as did the boots that crunched the hardened snow beneath him. All of this gave him a consummate feeling of well-being, of power. He remembered reading in his father’s library, when his father had been chief censor and therefore the best-read man in the USSR, a book by the Englishman Orwell, in which the Englishman had written of similar feelings — about his mounted policeman’s uniform when he served the British Raj in Burma. Of how the uniform, the riding pants, the boots, spurs, and the riding crop had given him, too, a feeling of pleasure and power.
Following the surge of confidence he’d experienced after shooting down the American Tomcats in the Aleutians, Sergei had worn the uniform with special pride. And so now, next to his father, whom he had always held in awe, he felt a rush of equality.
“I told her nothing of military operations here,” he told the general. “I’m not that stupid.”
“It’s not what you told her,” retorted the general, “but playing in the muck puts you in a vulnerable position.”
“You mean it puts the family in a vulnerable position.”
“If you wish to put it that way. Yes. Besides, she could have slipped you poison — anything.”
Sergei laughed and, seeing how it infuriated his father, rather enjoyed it. “Poison?”
“Or some filthy disease,” snarled the general.
“I use precautions,” said Sergei. “I’m not a moron. Besides, poison’s only for the Politburo.” Sergei sensed his father stiffen beside him, but the general kept walking, the snow crunched harder. “You miss the point entirely, Sergei. You know she’s been arrested as a saboteur. Her brothers also.”
“That’s not my affair. Am I supposed to run a security check on every peasant I—”
“You’re supposed to use your judgment. You might be a fighter ace, but you’ve obviously a few things to learn about women. About living with your two feet on the ground. She’s using you, no doubt, and her arrest could place you in a precarious position.” The general stopped for a moment, began to speak, then walking on again, announced abruptly, “It would be unwise of you to see her again or have anything to do with her family. Keep away from Jews.”
Sergei said nothing.
“Well?” pressed the general.
“What?” Sergei challenged him. “Do you want me to sign an affidavit?”
“I want you to assure me, here, now, that you’ll not see her again.”
Sergei turned to head back toward the fighter hangars, his father following.
“The question’s academic, isn’t it? I doubt the Committee for Public Safety will release her.” There was a sarcastic edge in his use of the KGB’s official title. “I assume you’ve made sure of that.”