Ian Slater: Warshot

Norton looked about nervously for any sign of reporters around the general’s Quonset hut, its frozen arch dripping in the darkness as spring’s thaw crept upon them. Norton saw a “covey,” as the general called photojoumalists, waiting for them by the headquarters. They would probably want some answers about Cheng’s refusal to release Smythe and, now it was suspected, several MIAs — air crew lost along the Amur. Sometimes, as now, Norton was convinced that the photojoumalists and others were less interested in a news story or a picture of Freeman next to his wall charts than they were in the headquarters coffee, said to be the best brewed in the entire Second Army. Proof of his theory came as they entered the HQ with the reporters, not a question being answered before everyone had their mug of steaming brew. Freeman was still agitated following his conversation with Cheng, and Norton knew he’d probably have to run interference for any of the dumber questions asked by any of the neophytes among the group.

Before the correspondents were upon them, Freeman instructed Norton to make sure they had lots of wolf dung ready in the event of a breakdown in the cease-fire.

“Yes, sir, I will.”

“General?” asked the redheaded CBS beauty. “Have you any plans to run for public office?”

“Hell, no. I’m not that old.” There was the usual smatter of polite laughter. “B’sides, my opinion of politicians—”

“Next question!” cut in Norton, pointing to ABC.

“General, it’s rumored you sent a message to the president that this is a Yugoslav cease-fire.”

“Yugoslavia no longer exists,” said Freeman.

Very adroit, thought Norton.

“General?” It was a CBC woman with a French-Canadian accent. “Sir, is it true that a Siberian woman is to be granted the Medal of Freedom?”

“It is. That’s no secret. Her name is Alexsandra Malof. She’s done a magnificent job for us. Magnificent. She’s in hospital in Khabarovsk at the moment, but we intend to recognize her — soon as she’s well enough.”

Norton thought it a nice point the general made — its international implications would rebound against Cheng. He’d have to be a lot more careful about how he looked after his prisoners, particularly American prisoners.

“What’s wrong with her, General?” It was a stunning Estonian blond photojournalist who had already driven several junior aides gaga.

“Ms. Malof,” replied Freeman, “is suffering from acute malnutrition, visual impairment, and severe gastric disorders due to her imprisonment by the Chinese Communists.”

Norton smiled approvingly. Cheng would now definitely be on the spot. No way would they kill Smythe. By the time they put him on the stand, he’d probably look overweight.

The press conference lasted another ten minutes, and then Freeman took time off for coffee, the young blonde from Estonia handing him a cup. “It is very nice of you, General, to agree to the film opportunity. You are a great hero in Tallin.” She could see the general didn’t understand. “Tallin is the capital of—”

“Yes, yes, I know that,” said Freeman, scrambling quickly to recover good manners. “Yes, of course, I realize Tallin—”

Norton came to the rescue, which was just as well, for though he had omitted to inform the general, it was he who had okayed the Estonian request for a short picture opportunity with the general.

“Estonian press wanted to do a, uh, little profile on you, General. You know the kind of thing…”

No, Freeman did not know the kind of thing. Never had known the kind of thing the general public were interested in — pictures of where you ate, your favorite colors, your favorite food — damn wonder they didn’t want to see you take a piss. But the blonde was smiling, and having taken off her parka, her figure poured into a white angora wool body suit momentarily caused a pause in all radio traffic in Freeman’s tent.

“Very well,” Freeman conceded. “Where do you want me to stand?”

“We were hoping, General, that we might get one or two pictures of your planning table—”

“Planning table?”

“Uh, I think the lady means where you figure out tactics and—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” said Freeman, neither wanting to offend the blond goddess nor appear in any way inept. “Well, I do most of my planning here — at the large wall map, and in my room. Now if you like, we could have a picture here, but I’m afraid the background board will have to go past the censor before I can let you—”

“No, no,” said the blonde sweetly. “Of course I understand, General. Nothing classified. Perhaps just a shot or two of your sleeping quarters. Would that be all right?”

“Yes, certainly. Right this way,” said Freeman; another blonde, this one a photographer, bringing up the rear.

The communications duty officer walked over to Norton. “Think the old man can handle that?” he asked Norton, nudging him.

“Oh I think so, the general’s—”

“Christ! You all right, Colonel?”

Suddenly Norton had remembered the press question weeks ago about the rumors of a possible OMON attack. He put down the coffee cup and ran quickly between the canyon of radio and communications equipment. He knocked on the general’s door. There was no answer. He tried the handle. The door was locked.

“General?” he shouted.

Inside, Freeman turned when he heard the knock. So did the women. One reached behind her, and Freeman saw the glint of what looked like a long syringe. The other one was already coming for him. As she lunged, he swung out of the way, now the other woman coming for him.

Freeman didn’t have time for the Sig Sauer nine-millimeter, barely making the Remington by his bed in time. He swung it in the general direction of the door and fired twice.

Outside, Norton heard the roar of the gun, a heavy thud, then another scrabbling noise. Freeman, his hair mussed, looked down at them. Nothing much was left of the photographer’s midriff but the bone of her spinal column as she slithered in the bloody ooze that had been her stomach; the other blonde, the prettier of the two, literally spouting blood, dead the second after the darts from the Remington load had hit her, each dart wound now a tiny fountain of blood.

“General!”

Freeman, running his fingers through his hair, putting the shotgun on the bed, pointing it away from the door, stepped over the two bodies, told them outside he was all right, then opened the door.

For a moment no one spoke, several men quickly exiting to be sick outside.

“Jesus!” said the normally restrained Norton, not yet realizing that a splinter from the door had grazed his eye bandage and caused a trickle of blood down his temple. “What in hell happened?”

Freeman walked back to the bed and reloaded the Remington. He was whey-faced but steady as a rock as he looked back down on the two OMONS. “I guess it’s what you call ‘equal opportunity’!” he said wryly.

It was a remark, though said in the near heat of the moment, that all but ended his career. La Roche’s tabloids went wild, FREEMAN JOKES ABOUT DEAD WOMEN.

“Christ— women?’ Freeman raged. “Bitches were OMON-trained. They’d kill their mother and no qualms about it.”

“I know,” Norton counseled as understandingly as he could. “But I think for a while, General, you’d better let me handle all press releases. And I do mean all .”

Back home every editorial writer was calling for Freeman to be disciplined.

It was a half hour before midnight when Jay La Roche’s private jet approached Anchorage. La Roche, not caring that his lawyers and others were looking — indeed, hoping they were — told Francine to take her bra off, that he wanted “a bit of tit for good luck.” This brought on gales of laughter from his hangers-on. Francine, trying to make the best of it, knowing she had little choice unless she wanted to end up getting another beating of the kind he’d handed out to his first wife, obliged.