Ian Slater - World in Flames

“By that,” Freeman explained, “I mean that I don’t want any goddamned Hanoi Jane movies. Got it?”

The lieutenant, in his early twenties, wasn’t familiar with the actress’s name. “Are they bad movies, General?”

“Bad! Harbin, the only goddamn picture I want to see Ms. Fonda in is a cartoon of her ass being blown to pieces by one of those guns she sat on in Hanoi when she was calling our boys war criminals! And another thing. I don’t want any MASH reruns. You know what I’m talking about — old, funny Hawkeye with all the jokes about the futility of war and the mad American generals. If it wasn’t for mad American generals like MacArthur and Ridgeway, there’d be no funny Hawkeyes in Hollywood. They’d all be munching rice, Harbin, and a lot of South Koreans would now be fertilizing the paddies of the North with their bones. Trouble is with MASH, it was an antiwar film against Vietnam policy set in Korea, but our boys won’t make that kind of distinction, Harbin. Too young to remember Korea. I don’t want them sabotaged in the rear by those long-haired weirdos that did us in over Vietnam. And I’ll tell you another thing, Harbin. North Vietnam’s one of the poorest, most oppressive countries in Asia. That’s why there’s no MASH II.”

The hapless press aide was glad to see Colonel Norton returning from the 747, informing Freeman, “All set to go in twenty minutes, General. They’re sending a crew bus to take you out rather than an official car — case there’s some press hanging around the—”

“Never mind that, Jim,” said Freeman. “Nothing wrong with my legs. Let’s go, Harbin. What’s the flight schedule, Jim? How many hours?”

“Twenty plus, sir, allowing for refueling in Hawaii and Japan.”

“Forecast?”

“Snow from here to the Midwest, General, but then clearing up as we get to Hawaii. From then on, it gets better.”

“Good. Harbin!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Notice you don’t use a plate between those note pages.”

Harlin didn’t know what to make of it and looked over to Norton for help, but the colonel’s head was down against the fine-grained snow that was bouncing off them like uncooked rice.

“Piece of aluminum,” explained Freeman, striding ahead. “Don’t use cardboard. Plastic if you like. But never write any of my orders down without a separating pad between the pages. You put the top ones in the burn basket as a matter of course, but more than one sergeant I’ve known has been reading his CO’s confidential memos, holding the second page up to the light. That happens in my command and you’ve got a free ride to nowhere. Understand?”

“Yes — yes, sir,” answered Harlin.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Freeman. “But you see, son, any fool can figure out the big plans. Only have to look at a map. It’s the details, Harbin. The details. That’s what wins or breaks the day.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll remember.”

“I know you will. Now, you just relax. We’re gonna have that big bird all to ourselves. Coca-Cola machines. Everything. More electronics on that baby than you can shake a stick at. Next thing you know, we’ll be in the land of the rising sun. Ever been to Japan, Harbin?”

“No, sir.”

“Beautiful country. That right, Jim?”

“Sure is, General.”

“You eat sushi, Harbin?”

“Ah—” He thought the general had said “shoosh.”

“Raw fish,” explained Norton.

“No — I–I don’t believe I have, General. Didn’t have any of that in Idaho.”

“Just as well. Mightn’t be here today if you did. Goes through you like crap through a goose. Sucks all the energy out of your legs. That right, Jim?”

“That’s right, General. Though I must say I’ve never had any trouble with—”

“Don’t contradict me, goddamn it!”

“No, sir.”

“Do we know for certain?” asked President Suzlov.

Soviet head of KGB Vladimir Chernko was equivocal. “Not absolutely, Premier — I mean Mr. President.” Despite his support of President Gorbachev during the latter’s years of decline, Chernko had always found it difficult to address subsequent leaders as “president” rather than the old pre-Gorbachev “premier.” “Our agent, one of the best in Brussels, said the car was unmarked — a Mercedes en route to the airport. No fanfare, no motorcycle escorts. But a glimpse of Freeman stepping out. It’s Freeman’s style, President.”

“What?” challenged Suzlov. “To slip out in the middle of the night? Hardly, Comrade. I thought he was a prima donna. Likes to be seen.”

“Unquestionably, Comrade President,” said Chernko. “Publicly — and I suppose for that matter, privately, but he’s no fool. He is the most brilliant tactician the Americans have. Anywhere. A master of the unexpected. Everyone thought this would be a war of high mobility and technology. That the so-called technological imperative would dictate strategy. But this Freeman has obviously mastered more than technical manuals. His grasp of tactics and of tactical details is legendary among his troops. We know now that the Pentagon thought he was mad when he presented the plan for Pyongyang — an airborne assault. At night — precisely when the American and South Korean forces were in full retreat. Therefore it is logical in my opinion that they would shift him back to Korea now the Chinese have crossed the Yalu. He knows the country.”

Suzlov remained unconvinced. “Yes, Comrade Director, but another of your agents is reporting that Freeman is still in Europe — going between Brussels and the front. He may be a first-rate commander, Comrade, but he’s not a magician.”

Suzlov turned away in his swivel chair, banks of white phones behind him, and looked over at the picture of Lenin. “He can’t be in two places at once. And why would the Americans give him a new command when his offensive against us is going so well in Europe?”

“Their supply line from the French ports to our Polish/Russian front is now over seventeen hundred kilometers, Mr. President. It’s true they have aerial superiority and their armored divisions have moved within striking distance of Minsk, but we are having increasing success where it ultimately counts — with our submarines. In the Pacific and the Atlantic, they’re about to turn the tide.”

“Are you that confident, Comrade?” asked Suzlov while studying Lenin’s photograph as if he had never really seen it before.

“Yes,” came the reply from Director Chernko. “If our submarines continue to stop the supplies, we will win. The mathematical equation is simple — no supplies, no advance. Meanwhile we are also reinforcing our supplies along the Trans-Siberian to Khabarovsk and Vladivostok. And now China’s entry has diverted what would have been NATO supplies from America to Korea, this takes even more pressure off our western front. If the Americans are beaten in Korea, we’ll be free to move our Sino-Soviet divisions for a final push against the Aleutians. It’s no wonder Washington is sending this Freeman back to Korea.”

“Perhaps,” responded Suzlov, “but you can never be sure what the Chinese will do. They will make peace and war when it suits them. Our situation will not influence them either way. They are strictly allies of convenience. You know this. If we falter anywhere in the Eastern Theater — they will cross the Amur into our territory and gobble up what they can. Look at Khabarovsk. Sabotage is already taking place there and we can’t seem to stop it.”

“We will,” Chernko promised him. “But back to Freeman. It makes sense for the Americans to give Freeman the Korean command. The snow is deep in Western Europe, and neither side, apart from the air forces, will be making much of a move until the spring. It is an ideal opportunity for them to recall their senior commander for ‘consultation.’ We also do this when—”