Ian Slater - World in Flames

“Yes,” said Mayne, “but if that starts, who stops it?”

Harry Schuman sighed heavily, both hands resting on the silver knob of the cane. “Mr. President — contrary to those on the extreme left who are always talking doomsday, I believe that it is possible to contain it. One or two air bursts on Soviet territory — Siberia — will demonstrate the point adequately.”

“No!” said the admiral, his tone tense with urgency. “Sir. If we’re talking about it, risking a nuclear war because we have to, then our first shots should at least hit vital military targets. The Kola Peninsula, for example. One air burst there could knock out three major military bases, including one SSBN base. Hell, one burst over Siberia, unless it hits an ICBM site right in the middle of the bull’s-eye, will only kill a few reindeer and wipe out a village or two in the boonies. And what in hell do we think they’d be doing in the meantime — in Moscow? No — the way we do it, Mr. President, is to launch an ICBM, land-based or sub, and not have it head for some outlying area that Muscovites don’t give a damn about but aim for a highly strategic target. That’ll show ‘em we’re not fooling around. If we have to do it — we should go for a hard military target. The bigger the better. Not a wild shot somewhere in the boonies.”

“The admiral’s quite right, sir,” said Air Force General Allet. “If we’re going to use the stick — might as well show them we can put our missiles where it hurts them most.”

“Why not Moscow then?” asked Mayne.

“Because they’d all be in the shelters,” explained General Grey.

“Yes,” confirmed the chief of naval operations. “They’d be down there well out of air burst range. Many of the deep tunnels are nuclear-repellant. Superhardened.”

“Perhaps,” said President Mayne, “we could give them a message some other way. Any suggestions?”

“Not at the moment, sir,” answered Grey.

“Then put your backs to it!” enjoined Mayne. “Meanwhile I want you to send the word out that no commander is to use any chemical or biological weapons without my personal directive.”

“Sir?” said Press Secretary Trainor. “We could have a problem with Doug Freeman on this. He’s a brilliant field commander, but if the Chinese pour everything they’ve got into North Korea, he might be tempted to cross the Yalu, use 105-millimeter A tips.”

“Goldarn it!” said Mayne, turning on Grey. “General! You tell Freeman that he is not to cross the Yalu. He is to stay this side of it and do what he’s damn well told.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mayne leaned forward, shaking his head, letting a pencil he’d been twirling fall from his fingers. “What a mess!”

“War usually is,” commented Harry Schuman. The president could feel the migrane getting a stranglehold on him, despite his preemptive strike.

It was bitterly cold, the Yalu River taking on a strange, ethereal blue though it was still an hour till sundown. Despite the piercing cold and the exposed forward position of Outpost Delta, Norton felt much more comfortable in the hills overlooking the Yalu than he’d been in the claustrophobic warmth of the Boeing. “They won’t try gas here,” he proclaimed confidently.

“What makes you think they won’t?” pressed Freeman, looking down through Delta’s field scope, moving it through a 140-degree arc west to east over the valley below where the ground tumbled away to flats a quarter mile from the frozen river and the wild, snow-covered mountains of Manchuria beyond. “You think they’re more afraid of us than they are of the ROK?”

“No, sir,” answered Norton, “but they’re too close to us, sir. Up here the major says the wind can change because of that valley below quicker than you can blink.”

Freeman was worried. Delta had barely been blooded and morale was rock-bottom all along the Korean front, following Creigh’s humiliating defeat.

“Jim,” said Freeman, still looking through the scope, “you know the prime tactic of the Chinese infantry?”

“Let’s see if I can remember my little red book,” said Norton. “When the enemy attacks, withdraw. When the enemy withdraws, attack. Always seemed pretty much like common sense to me, General.”

Freeman stood up from the scope, hands on his hips, resting on the two leather holsters. “Yes, I know… And put the door back on the house when you leave.” He turned to Norton. “That was old Mao Cow Dung’s way of teaching his peasant army not to act like occupiers when they went through a village — get the people’s backs up and they turn against you instead of helping you. Often used a door for a table in a village — only damn thing big enough. You’re right, though— most of it’s pretty much common sense — at least when you’re not in the thick of battle.” Freeman squinted, for though the sun was starting to dip down to the mountains behind him, there was a glare coming from the broken china of white-covered peaks beyond the Yalu as the mountains of Manchuria reflected the sun’s dying rays. “But some of their tactics aren’t so obvious, Jim. Ever figure out why they attack en masse?”

“Logistics. Plenty of ‘em, I guess. One man’s there to pick up another’s rifle if they haven’t got enough arms. Don’t pick up a dropped weapon, you could lose it — especially in the snow.”

“True,” answered Freeman, still looking at the mountains, trying to detect anything that might signify the Chinese positions. It looked snowbound and deserted. “Attacking in numbers like that also panics defenders,” said Freeman. “Unless they’re veterans. But the main reason, Jim, is that the Chinese infantry commanders, more than any others, want to close with Americans more than with any other army. Want to get as many men in and around our positions as they can.”

“With our firepower, General, seems a pretty crazy tactic.”

Freeman said nothing for a moment, looking through the scope again. “Know what they used to say at the movies when I was a boy, Jim?”

“What’s that, General?”

Freeman swung the scope to the northern sector of the field of fire overlooking the valley and the big bend in the river. “ ‘Too quiet.’ And that’s what I’m feeling now. Too damned quiet.” He turned about and briskly drew Delta’s HQ bunker curtain aside. “Major? How long you say it’s been since the last engagement?”

“Yesterday morning, sir. About 0500. Nothing since then. Not even sniper fire.” The major emerged from the bunker, pulling his collar up against the wind that was blowing snow off the crests of the hill. “You figure they’ve gone back to Beijing, General?”

“The hell I do. Those rice-eating sons of bitches are over that river dug in. Something’s brewing. I can smell it.”

“Maybe they’re going to hit us in another sector, General,” proffered the major. “Now they’ve pushed Creigh back and driven a wedge between First Army in the west and Ten Corps further east. Maybe they’re moving west to reinforce the wedge — spread it out between us.”

“I haven’t seen any sign of them moving, Major,” replied Freeman.

“Not in daylight, General. Chinks are night birds.”

“Intelligence,” put in Norton, “haven’t reported any movement west.”

“Intelligence!” snorted Freeman, his breath steaming in the air. “That’s cold comfort, Jim. Intelligence, with all that damn satellite gear, didn’t see any of them when they first hit us. They came over that river and were butchering Creigh’s men before he knew it.”

“I realize that,” said Norton, “but the intelligence boys were having trouble with their thermal sensors then, General. Sometimes when the weather gets—”