Ian Slater - Asian Front

“How about the Chinese army, General?”

“That’s why we have to strike fast, Dick. Before Cheng can recover from the beating we’ve given him here. Weather’s cleared.”

Overhead American fighter patrols were now tangling with Chinese Shenyangs. It was no contest—”the turkey shoot of Organ Tal.” But on the ground Cheng still had over two and a half million in arms.

“General, if you make a move on Beijing, Washington’ll have you court-martialed. Already they’re saying Beijing is seeking a cease-fire.”

“Another Yugoslav cease-fire,” Freeman said contemptuously. “Won’t last a week — if that.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Alright, Norton, our supply line is overextended. I’ll say that. And we need to consolidate — you’re right there. But you tell me what I’m supposed to do if Admiral Kuang attacks in more clement weather — now that I’m this close?”

“We’d have to check with Washington, sir.”

“Cheng would have to defend on two fronts,” Freeman said.

“I don’t know, General,” Norton said cautiously. “We were sent here originally to keep the peace — not start a war.”

“We didn’t start a war. Goddamn commies started it the moment Cheng crossed over and slaughtered that Japanese defense force. We’re already in the war, Norton, or hadn’t you noticed?” He saw the worry lines creasing Norton’s face. “Well, have those Chinese bastards in Beijing kept their people down?” The general answered his own question before Norton could utter a word. “Hell, those jokers’ve been asking for it ever since Tiananmen.”

Norton didn’t answer. To take Beijing — it would be one of the fiercest battles in history. Even the idea of it took Norton’s breath away, and he sought refuge in the logistical situation.

“But you do agree, sir, that we couldn’t move yet even if we wanted to.”

“Agreed, but it won’t take us long to get back to full strength, Dick.”

Norton had been told that July and August would be the monsoon months, and that the rain would cause Freeman further pause. It would most commanders, but that was the problem: Freeman wasn’t like most commanders. He’d attacked Pyongyang at night and Ratmanov Island in a blizzard. And won.

“By God, can you imagine it, Dick? For us, the American army, to be in Tiananmen Square. To raise the Stars and Stripes. To free China.” Freeman’s vision was so grand it awed and terrified Norton.

At the most forward aid station outside Orgon Tal, where he sat with so many others waiting to be attended to, Aussie was already comforted by a medic telling him that his injury was a flesh wound, that he’d lost some blood and the shoulder would be badly bruised for a while but that he’d be all right once they stitched him up. A half hour later Alexsandra Malof, one of the few prisoners to survive the FAV attacks against the guns, was ushered in by a corporal. Aussie instinctively made room for her by him, patting the bench. Someone whose pain had got the better of him asked in a loud voice when they were going “to get out of this fucking dump.”

“Hey!” Aussie shouted, the effort hurting his shoulder, but he got everyone’s attention. “Watch the language, lads. Lady present.” He offered her the rest of his coffee, and she accepted. “Must forgive the lads, miss,” Aussie said. “They use a lot of foul language I’m afraid. Don’t go for it myself.” He extended his right hand. “Name’s Aussie Lewis.”

Alexsandra nodded. “I am Alexsandra Malof.”

Her very breathing excited him, and he watched her breasts rise and fall in a unison that mesmerized him. Finally he told her, “They’re sending us back to Khabarovsk for a bit of R and R — rest and recreation.”

“Oh yes,” she said.

“So how about you?”

“Khabarovsk also.”

“That a fact? Look, maybe we could have dinner.”

“Perhaps.” She liked the soldier’s easy friendliness, his openness, and he did not seem as uncouth as some of the others. Someone came in swearing about getting “fucking sand in my fucking contacts.”

“Hey! Hey!” Aussie said. “Enough of that!”

David Brentwood shook his head disbelievingly, causing his cheek to bleed more. “I can’t stand it,” he told Choir.

“How about Olga?” somebody asked Aussie.

Lewis affected complete puzzlement, frowning. “Olga— Olga who?”

“A bird in the hand, eh, Aussie?” another of the wounded SAS/D troopers said.

Aussie shook his head as if he’d been deeply hurt, explaining softly to Alexsandra Malof, “They’re very uncouth.”

“Like most soldiers, I suppose,” she said.

Aussie sighed. “Yes, I’m afraid you’re right.”

“Do you think there will be more fighting?” she asked him.

“All depends, I suppose, on whether the Chinese want to come to terms with the U.N. or not.” He paused. “I heard someone say you had a pretty bad run — I mean a bad time with the Chinese.”

“Yes,” she said simply. “And the Siberians.” But he could tell she didn’t want to talk any more about it. “Oh well,” he told her, “it’s over now, Sandy. When we get back to Khabarovsk and have that dinner let’s not talk about it.”

“Yes,” she said warmly. “That would be wonderful.”

David Brentwood was still shaking his head. “I can’t stand it.”

Jay told the lawyer to get lost, and when he was off the phone Jay had disconnected the jack. Then he walked over slowly toward the bed where Lana lay on her back, legs draped over the end of the bed. Jay told himself he mustn’t hurry, but by the time he’d pulled off her panty hose, rolled her over, undone her bra, and rolled her back over again, her legs lolling down further over the end of the bed, he knew he’d have trouble drawing it out. But hell, that was half the fun, and no matter what she said after coming to from the chloral hydrate of the Mickey Finn, he’d call the lawyer, who would swear blind that Mr. La Roche hadn’t touched her, no matter how sore she felt or what she said.

Naked himself, standing over her, he reached down, rolled her over again onto her stomach, slipped his hands beneath her, squeezed her breasts, then took one shot with the Polaroid to make sure it was working properly. Let this fucking Shirer marry her after this little peep show had done the round of the base. Already he had the headline for his “rags,” as she’d called them: WAVE OFF BASE WITH ACE. All you could see in this photo was her buttocks, but later when he flipped her again, finished doing it in her mouth — chained her up a bit — he’d take a mug shot of her. Franklin would recognize her easy enough then.

One thing he knew he could count on was that medically she’d be clean as a cucumber. No VD pushed into her. He’d been too careful about that. And if she started squawking to anyone after, he’d remind her of what her precious daddy and mommy would look like splashed across the National Investigator. He spread her buttocks apart and, spitting on the soap bar, ran it up and down thirteen times. Thirteen was lucky.

There was a knock on the door. He tried to ignore it, but it wouldn’t let up. Quickly he grabbed his Chinese robe with the gold brocade dragons rampant on emerald silk — the same robe he’d used when he’d had her in Shanghai. There was another knock on the door and, cursing, he went over and looked through the peephole. It wasn’t the lawyer but the snot-nosed junior reporter from the Anchorage Spectator, intent on getting a story from La Roche. La Roche knew the type — young, persistent, dreamed of the Pulitzer, and a pain in the ass when you wanted a piece of tail. And if you told them to scram they’d write fuckin’ lies about you. He opened the door. “Listen,” he told the kid, “I’m busy right now.”