Ian Slater - Warshot

As the general and Norton stepped into the press room, Norton was momentarily blinded by the multiple explosions of flashbulbs amid the mass of mike-clutching reporters, already in a feeding frenzy over what the Chinese incursion meant and what wording the general was going to use and what Washington thought about the general and was it true that they were keeping him on a tight leash?

The general looked serious yet not grim, concerned but not stressed, the furrows in his brow as much a signal to those members of the press who already knew him that he, not the press corps, was going to set the agenda, and that the television klieg lights were too bright. He held his hands up for silence. “Ladies and gentlemen, before I take any questions, I wish to clarify an unfortunate error reported by some of you.”

“Who?” shouted one young reporter, a woman — midtwenties, good-looking, her red hair conspicuous in the glare, the strap of the Pentax camera slung about her neck bisecting her breastline, making her figure even more prominent as she lunged forward with a fishing-rod-like boom mike, her emerald-green eyes keen with the determination not to let her inexperience stand in her way. “Unfortunate error by whom, General?” she shouted.

Freeman wanted to say, “By the toilet newspapers of the La Roche chain,” but Norton’s cough by his side cautioned him from being specific, to remember what he himself had told Norton — that “vexatious reporters are the most venomous, vengeful bastards in the world.”

“It’s been reported,” Freeman began, “that our positions in the southwestern sector of the Amur hump have been attacked by ‘swarms’ of Chinese infantry. Now I’m here to tell you the Chinese have never attacked in swarms here, in Korea, or anywhere else. That was a myth concocted by overeager reporters trying to win brownie points with fat, unfit editors back home.” There were ripples of laughter, and Norton starting a coughing fit. “Chinese infantry,” Freeman proceeded, hands akimbo, “seldom attack above regimental level. And they attack well-defined targets— they don’t swarm over anything. Like any other army, the Chinese army—”

Norton coughed, whispering, “Don’t offend Taiwan.”

“… The Chinese Communists,” continued Freeman, “have never launched ‘hordes’ or ‘swarms,’ as one of your colleagues put it. That’s a bunch of coon — dirt.” There was more laughter. “And those stories about one in ten Chinese infantry being properly armed, the other nine yahooing and beating bamboo until they get a chance to pick up a dead man’s weapon, are a figment of some reporter’s imagination. Now, admittedly that might have occurred here and there in Korea, but not here. The People’s Liberation Army’s weapons are simple, highly reliable, and they’ve got plenty of ‘em. I can assure you we are not beating swarms — we are fighting highly trained ground troops on their own ground.”

“You mean you don’t think we can win? Another Vietnam?” Even some of the older reporters turned around, surprised by the redhead’s chutzpa, though most of them, Norton suspected, were drawn as much by her cleavage as she once again thrust the mike above her colleagues’ heads toward the general.

“Not at all,” replied Freeman icily. “What I’m saying is that the enemy is formidable but that I believe the American soldier can and will regain lost ground and—”

“But can we win, General?” The redhead’s mike was barely a foot from Freeman’s face, other reporters ducking out of the boom’s way. The general didn’t notice; he was reading a scribbled note, hastily passed from the duty officer to Norton and thence to the general.

“That’s all. Thank you,” he announced crisply, and was gone. The uproar from the media reminded Norton of rock and roll aficionados just informed of a no-show.

“Where?” demanded Freeman, whipping off his forage cap in the Ops room, throwing it down on the table before the map of Lake Baikal, the hum of computers and bursts of radio traffic stabbing in the background.

“Here,” said Norton, indicating a point just north of the southernmost end of the lake. His fingers slid farther along. “And here.” Then he tapped a third position farther north of the other two, and like them, on the western side of the lake.

“Estimated strength?” asked Freeman.

“Four, possibly six, divisions. Least a hundred thousand men,” the duty officer cut in. “G-2 suspects SPETS troops are the spearheads. Whatever the troop concentration, General — we’re looking at three breakthrough points.”

“Satellite-confirmed?” pressed Freeman. He wasn’t about to commit any reserves to possible feints by Yesov until, in the absence of aerial reconnaissance reports, he had confirmed visual sightings.

“Infrared-confirmed in each case, General. They’re moving east, all right. Straight toward our Three Corps at Port Baikal. No doubt about it.”

“Radio intercepts?”

“Nothing there, sir. Apparently Yesov’s got them moving by flag signal and sheathed land line. So we have no intercepts.”

“Now lookit, Jimmy,” Freeman replied, his eyes fixing his duty officer. “I don’t want another Skovorodino road trap here.” The duty officer was aware that there were no roads along most of the lake, but knew immediately what Freeman meant. Were they fake tanks — as they’d been at Skovorodino before the cease-fire — giving off infrared signatures in hopes of dummying Freeman into committing his revetted armor at Port Baikal to precisely the wrong places, leaving Port Baikal largely defenseless?

“I’ve already thought of that one, sir. No, sir, it’s the real thing, all right. Infrared images were moving.”

“Flashlights can move. How about our ground sensors?”

“Got that one covered, too, General. Snow muffles the sensors all right, so nothing registered for a while. But then Port Baikal started registering definite shakes — horizontal movement — mile-and-a-half-advance rumble. They’re main battle tanks, sir — they’re not driving fake tanks around on truck chassis, if that’s what you’re concerned about.” The duty officer turned and snatched up a SITREP sheet, saving the best evidence for last. “Besides, one of our patrols out of Port Baikal, halfway down to Kultuk at the southern end of the lake, got an LAW round off. He was up a tree, General — literally. Put his shot right through the tank’s cupola. Said the thing went up like the Fourth of July. Kept rolling — couple of Siberians tried to get out. On fire when they hit the snow.”

“And our patrol?” inquired Freeman.

“Not so good, General. Three confirmed dead — two missing — but the other four got back to Port Baikal.”

Freeman was nodding, looking worriedly at the map, the three points, fifty miles apart, now marked with red circles — a large S inside of each. A 150-mile-long front. “How did our patrol get back so fast? Ahead of the Siberian tanks?”

“They used four Arrows.”

Freeman nodded. The Arrows weren’t the Israeli antimissile missiles, but the small snow vehicles that young David Brentwood and his SAS/Delta commando team had used to go across the lake before the cease-fire to take out the midget sub pens at Port Baikal.

“We, gentlemen,” said Freeman, looking from the duty officer to Norton and back, “are in a fix. If we recall any of our troops we’ve ordered south against the ChiComs, the ChiComs’ll punch an even bigger hole through our southern flank. But if I don’t stop this Siberian triple play”—his knuckle rapped the middle of the three red circles marking the 150-mile-wide Siberian offensive—”our boys’ll have to hightail it across that ice — leave all our heavy equipment behind if they’re to make it in time.” He dismissed the idea of such a retreat as quickly as it had occurred to him. It was die worst-case scenario. “Any sign of the weather clearing?”