Ian Slater - Arctic Front

Norton said nothing. Part of being Freeman’s aide was the ability to let the general vent his spleen against “rancid reporters,” whose ego, thundered Freeman, “is ten times as big as any general’s I know.” He paused. “Including mine.”

Norton risked a smile but knew that for the time being silence was the most prudent policy. It was still touch and go.

“For crying out loud, Schwarzkopf lost more than that!”

Norton thought it inadvisable to point out that “Stormin’ Norman” had fielded over half a million men, that Freeman’s 51 percent casualty rate for Schwarzkopf would have meant a quarter of a million casualties. But he knew the general was right, too — it was comparing apples and oranges. It wasn’t simply a numbers game, and he suspected that in the supposedly cool, “objective” halls of the Pentagon there was sheer envy of Freeman’s grandstand style.

“Well, General,” hazarded Norton, “you’re going to have a chance to prove them wrong about you.”

It was a sobering thought, and it stopped Freeman’s outrage against the newspapers and TV editors dead in its tracks. The “opportunity,” he knew, was Siberia. Siberia to Ratmanov was as a sea to an island, its danger far more widespread and unknown. The “tooth to tail”—logistical — problem alone would be the greatest military undertaking in history.

Freeman held the editorials over the waste bin. “One of these—” He indicated a Los Angeles Times column, “—calls the ‘profligate’ with my troops, as if I don’t—” The clipping fell from his hand, and snatching his parka he went out into the Arctic night, swearing at a zipper that took too long to engage.

When the cold air hit him it took his breath away, and in the sheen of twilight, filled with the heavy drumming of transport planes overhead escorting the airborne sapper and engineer battalions who were clearing any remaining minefields and the ice crust off Ratmanov’s summertime airfield, he saw a squiggle of water between the ice floes, and reached for his field glasses.

In the binoculars’ circle he saw a seabird covered with oil, flapping and slipping helplessly on the ice in a futile effort to get airborne, exhausting itself on the floe. Another oil-soaked bird watched helplessly nearby. He thought of Doreen, and how he had not thought of her at all during the battle, of how he might never see her again, and of how many American mothers and sweethearts would think of him as a butcher. But he could not cry — not because at that moment he did not want to or would have been ashamed of it, but because he felt himself constrained by a sense of destiny, of mission. He couldn’t explain it to others, but he knew it was true and would not afford him the luxury of self-pity, calling instead to his side Churchill’s stirring rendition of the ancient psalm: “Arm yourselves and be ye men of valor and be in readiness for the conflict, for it is better for us to perish in battle than to look upon the outrage of our nation and our altars. As the will of God is in Heaven even so let it do.”

The brief daylight of the strait was gone and across the darkness that at that moment seemed impenetrable yet across which he knew he must lead the great invasion, lay Sibir — ethereally silent and waiting, a land so vast, so used to consuming her own, that he knew she would not be loath to devour an enemy.

Back inside there were more faxes of editorial criticism. “Armchair strategists!” Freeman harrumphed.”They’re all suffering from Iraqi fever, Dick — the conviction that you can go in against a dug-in enemy and suffer next to no casualties, based on the erroneous assumption that every enemy commander will be as incompetent as Saddam Insane.” Freeman held up his hand as if to forestall any objection. “I’m taking nothing from Schwarzkopf. Didn’t know what they’d be up against, had every right to expect major resistance. And by God, what those pilots did — our boys and those British Tornadoes going in on the deck like that. Magnificent! Brave as the Argentine flyers when they went for the warships instead of the transports in the Falklands. Course the Iraqis — most of ‘em — don’t want to the for a madman. But the Sibirs, Dick—” Freeman shook his head. “Different breed altogether.”

“General, I don’t mean to interrupt, but I’ve got a marine captain — medical corps — wants to see you.”

“Oh, hell, I told them I’m fine. No aftereffects. Just got a bump on my head, that’s all.”

“He insists on seeing you, sir.”

“All right, Dick. Send him in. Meanwhile, I want you to get the invasion book.” It was a six-inch-thick computer printout of everything from guns to gum that American forces would need for the Siberian campaign. “I don’t want to give Novosibirsk any more time man I have to. Landings have to be made simultaneously and within three weeks. What’s the SITREP on the European front? That’s where the Siberians’ll expect our major push.”

“You’re right, General. That’s why it’s a stalemate. They’ve thrown in another ten divisions — a hundred and thirty thousand fresh troops, and they’re keeping our boys and the Brits stalled. We’re still over a hundred miles west of the Urals.”

But already Norton could see Freeman was thinking of the East Siberian offensive, the general telling him, “We’re going to have to make up for a fall-off in navy protection…”

“Sir. The marine captain?”

“What? Oh, yes. All right, send him in. Meantime you can get a progress report for the on that Kommandorsky battle group of ours. I want the Missouri and Wisconsin pounding the bejaysus out of the air field and the sub bases mere. After Ratmanov that’s the one forward bastion we have to knock off. Otherwise the bastards’ll harass our supply lines right across the North Pacific. Salt Lake City’s giving them air cover, right?

“Yes, General.”

“And find out what the Japanese are doing — whether the president’s got them off their ass to help us or whether they’re doing another Gulf, sit-on-your-ass routine.”

“I’ll get on to it right away, sir.”

Capt. Michael Devine was a small, stocky man with an M.D. that had given him his captain’s bars. It struck Freeman, though he hadn’t noticed it while he was on the chopper’s stretcher litter, that the captain must have barely made the marine height requirement.

“Captain,” said Freeman smiling, “now I appreciate your concern for your commanding officer. Commendable but I feel just dandy. So thank you for coming but—”

“General, that’s not why I’m here.”

“Oh.” The diminutive captain looked even smaller as Freeman cocked his head back in surprise.

“Can I speak plainly, sir?”

“Only way, Captain. Shoot.”

“Sir, you requested — ordered — my medics to take you off the stretcher.”

“I did.”

“I understand they — you argued with them.”

Freeman was scowling. “I told them, Captain, to unstrap the from that goddamn contraption so I could get back to killing Russians. That’s what I’m paid for.” Freeman glowered down at Devine. “What’s your beef?”

“General, it took at least forty-five seconds to get you out of that air safety harness. It takes an enemy mortar crew only thirty seconds to bracket us from the moment we land. That means from the point of touchdown to takeoff my men have thirty seconds to load four stretchers litters and to be clear for the chopper’s takeoff. The kind of delay you caused us could cost the a chopper, crew, and wounded.”

Freeman was reddening by the second. He walked to within a foot of the captain’s face, his voice filling the room. “I’ve never been spoken to like that in my life, Captain. I suppose you’re one of those jokers who thinks talking back to the old man gets you kudos.”