Ian Slater - World in Flames

“Goddamn it, Jim! I can’t go giving an order for everyone to stay put while I go out and eat seaweed with the emperor. Besides, what if somebody recognized me en route — never mind this Wall Street garb they’ve stuck me into. It’d compromise the whole operation. Besides, only emperor I wanted to see was Douglas MacArthur. Then he went and screwed it all up. Gave them brand-new factories — put them years ahead of Detroit, which is why the automobile industry in this country is a basket case.” Freeman paused. “You don’t agree?”

“Never said a word, General.”

“I can read it all over your face. Well, I’m no racist bucko. I’ll fight and the with those people. What they did for us in the early months of the war when our perimeter ‘round Pusan shrank till we didn’t have a pot to piss in was magnificent. Magnificent. But—” for a moment the general moved closer to the colonel, eyes intense “—I’ll tell you this, Jim. If there’s anything left of a command in Korea and I do push Premier Lin Zhou’s boys back across the Yalu and the Tamur, I won’t be giving Beijing new automobile factories so they can pull another economic ‘miracle’ on us. Hell, I’d give ‘em democracy, too, but they’d have to rebuild from the rubble.”

Norton felt a flush of alarm — the “rubble” in Japan’s case had come from an atomic bomb. “You don’t mean you’d drop the bomb on the Chinese, General?”

“When are those jokers going to have my plane ready?”

“Excuse me, General.” Freeman turned to see his press aide and the U.S. Navy pilot, name tag “Maj. F. Shirer.”

“You have combat experience, Major?” asked Freeman.

“Yes, sir.”

“Where?”

“Aleutians, sir. Pyongyang.”

“Pyongyang?”

“Yes, sir. I flew off the Salt Lake City.”

“Cover!” said Freeman. “For my choppers?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Shirer, adding in a tone that spoke of pride with a flush of uncharacteristic immodesty, “Led the wing in twice.”

“That where you got that Navy Star, Major?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, hell, son, what are you doing here?” There was a sudden tension in the air, Norton knowing that if the general thought for a moment anyone was goldbricking, he’d just as soon shoot him.

“Beats me, sir,” Shirer told him honestly. “Apparently I’m a replacement for one of the Air Force One teams. Told me they wanted someone with combat hours, though why they chose—”

Freeman extended his hand. “I’ve got a more important job for you than ferrying the president around.”

The young press secretary shot a worried glance at Norton as if there might be some hidden microphone or reporter in the hangar, despite the fact that no one from the press would have been allowed anywhere near Andrews if there’d been even a suspicion that Freeman was in town.

“What’s the mission, sir?” asked Shirer, barely able to contain his excitement at the possibility of returning to active service, maybe even the Aleutians.

“Back to Korea,” explained Freeman, beaming. “As my pilot.”

Shirer hesitated. “You mean — a 747?”

“That’s right.”

“Yes, sir.”

Norton tried to send an eye code to Shirer to the effect that it wasn’t just anyone who got the job of flying the legendary Freeman back to the scene of his first glory. But the truth was that Shirer had had enough honor since he had come to Washington. What he wanted was combat. Instead he’d be jockeying the big, slow 747. If a fighter was a sports car, the 747 was a Mack truck — fully loaded. Besides, it wouldn’t take him anywhere near Lana. He also didn’t like the general calling him “son.” Though only in his late twenties, it wouldn’t be that long before they’d be retiring him from fighter duty.

“Shirer,” said Freeman, “if you don’t want it, say so. But before you do, remember this. I’m directly responsible for implementing the president’s orders. Now, I don’t care what you think of me, but the mission is nothing less than to initiate a decisive action to win the war for us in Asia. If my hunch is right — it’ll be a commuter ride from here through Pearl and on to Japan. And it should be a breeze from there to Seoul. I’m not supposed to be here — but in Europe. All our indications are that our ruse is working, so there shouldn’t be any trouble. But there could be Red Navy units with surface-to-air missiles, and if any shooting starts, I’d like a veteran at the wheel.”

“I’d be honored to go, General.”

“Good man! See him aboard, Jim.”

“Yes, General.”

The young press aide was now alone with the general. Freeman shook his head, grinning, watching Shirer heading out through the bluish-white veil of snow toward the aircraft. “He’s about as happy to be flying that big bird as I’d be seeing the emperor.”

“Yes, sir,” agreed the press aide, Harlin, eagerly. He had still not recovered from being assigned to the general’s staff— overawed by the general’s reputation and the scenes it evoked — of the general shooting his way room to room through the Great Hall of the People of Pyongyang, looking for his nemesis, General Kim.

“Know why he’ll do it?” said Freeman. “Because he’s a soldier. He’s a warrior, Harbin.”

“Yes, sir,” said Harlin, too awed to tell the general it was “Harlin,” not “Harbin.”

“I want you to take some notes, Harbin,” ordered Freeman. “Pass ‘em on to Jim Norton soon as you finish.”

“Yes, sir. Shoot!”

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.