Ian Slater - World in Flames

“You kidding, General?” replied one man, but there was a new tone — a respect that Freeman knew would spread like wildfire down the line as the reconnaissance patrol left.

“Major!”

“Sir?”

“It wasn’t a ‘peanut farmer,’ but it was a farmer.”

It took a second for the major to remember the general’s story about the Chinese farmer who discovered the massive Chinese army underground. “You ever miss anything, General?”

“Very little, Major. Very little.” Then Freeman walked to the front of the section, to take the “point.” “All right, boys. Follow me.”

In the chopper, Colonel Norton was gripping his seat tightly, but added to his fear of flying was the haunting, terrible response of the Chinese general Lin Biao, who, when MacArthur had once threatened the Chinese Red Army with the A-bomb, had replied, “So we lose a million or two.”

In Seoul, or what was left of it after the pulverizing it had taken during the NKA invasion of the South, and again when the Americans, breaking out of the Pusan-Yosu perimeter, had counterattacked before being bogged down by the massive intervention of the Chinese, there was no hesitation in sending the choppers loaded with atomic-tipped shells to the forward positions overlooking the Yalu. News of the Chinese’s use of nerve gas had sent a shiver down the spine of every Allied commander from the Yalu to the Russian front outside Minsk. And the failure of enough supplies getting through the Soviet sub packs only fueled the apprehension of frontline commanders, as presidential adviser Schuman warned, that the Russians, seeing a brief window of opportunity, before the Allies could build up enough support for the final push into Russia, might strike with CBW weapons of their own all along the NATO front.

In Beijing, China radio was broadcasting charges that the “ultimate degradation of bourgeois capitalism” was evident in “Washington’s criminal use of chemical weapons from napalm to the gas supplied by America to the ROK lackeys and pirates” who had, “on the orders of Washington, attacked the freedom-loving people of the People’s Republic of China with nerve gas.”

As Kiril Marchenko stepped out of his Zil limousine for the emergency meeting of the Politburo and presidential advisers in the Council of Ministers Building, snow had stopped falling, but one glance at the heavy, metallic-colored sky told him it was only a brief lull in the latest Arctic storm sweeping down from Murmansk to Moscow and on to the Polish plain.

As President Suzlov moved from his desk to the conference table of his enormous office under the gaze of Marx, aides carried piles of the red-striped green folders of war reports, distributing them to the Politburo and STAVKA members, less than half of whom had been able to make it on such short notice. Marchenko was worried by the implacable expression worn by KGB chief Chernko, who he noticed had been seated immediately to the right of the president. Both Suzlov and Chernko were quintessential apparatchiki —”bureaucrats”— efficient, cool, but, Marchenko thought, lacking the human dimension — a deficiency evident in Chernko’s argument that a gas attack was now “sovershenno mozhnym” —”quite feasible”—against the NATO front, given the strong prevailing southwestward flows of Arctic air that wouldn’t endanger Soviet troops.

Suzlov opened the emergency meeting to questions, a meeting that Marchenko quietly noted to his aide didn’t have enough members present to constitute a legal Party quorum. Marchenko, already leaning against the highly polished table, his reflection melting like all the others into a blur of khaki and red collar tabs of the general staff, asked, “Mr. President, I wish to point out that whether a southern wind—”

“Southwest,” put in Chernko pedantically but without the slightest malice.

“Southwest, then,” continued Marchenko. “The supposition that this will protect all our troops from the gas is rather hypothetical given—”

“I can assure Comrade Marchenko,” Chernko cut in, but was himself interrupted by Suzlov.

“Let Comrade Marchenko finish.”

“Thank you, Mr. President. As I was saying, no matter that the prevailing winds at the moment may favor our deployments across the Brest front. This does not take into account local conditions — local eddies — which could engulf some of our forward units. My wife, who, as you know, is comrade in charge of Moscow CBW defenses, is very concerned by this. We have seen in Moscow that the existence of internal heating and certain structures produces totally unexpected results. Windy places where you would expect— The point I am making, Comrade, is that it’s very unpredictable.”

“I’m sure,” replied Chernko dryly. “But we aren’t concerned with very many buildings on the front, General — yes, yes, a few cities perhaps, but we must surely look at the macro situation, Comrades.” He made a face of grandfatherly regret. “Admittedly, a few peculiar local air currents, conditions— whatever you wish to call them — may interfere with some forward troop deployments, but on the whole, the Allies would suffer a crippling blow all across the front of the attack.”

Marchenko seemed to Chernko as if he was about to cut in again, and so Chernko avoided his gaze, addressing the rest of those present, as if even those absent from the empty chairs were listening. “And one thing in which I’m sure that Comrade Marchenko’s wife would concur is that our chemical/ biological warfare suits, as well as our shelter defenses, are far superior to those of the enemy — with the possible exception of some recently issued to a few German regiments. But as a part of the whole, Comrades, this consideration is nothing. What we have here is not only the chance to stop the Allied invasion dead in its tracks but to buy us vital time for our submarines to cripple Allied resupply. Indeed, far from defeat, Comrades—” Chernko was looking directly at President Suzlov now “—I see the very definite possibility of victory. Comrade Marchenko isn’t taking into account the fact that within America, my agents and SPETS cells, long in place and recently activated, have created havoc. Now, Comrades. Now is the moment.”

“You don’t think,” asked Suzlov, “that the Americans will retaliate with chemical weapons?”

Chernko shook his head. “No, Mr. President. As we know, the great weakness in the democracies is that they have to talk about everything for a month — Congress checking with their constituencies — before they decide which toothpaste to use.”

There was some laughter, but Marchenko was shaking his head, telling Chernko, “Then, Comrade, you haven’t got a clear grasp of America at war. She is slow to respond at first— yes. But once in gear, her production capacity is enormous. And in crisis, Americans empower their executive to act swiftly if need be. As—”

“Comrade General,” responded Chernko, “I agree wholeheartedly with you, but I tell you they are not ready for this. The logistics of warhead conversion to chemical warheads on their missiles is no small thing, even for the Americans. And in two weeks it could all be over. But we mustn’t give them any longer. This is why we have called this meeting.”

“It’s those damn Chinese who got us into this,” interjected General Arbatov, in charge of Moscow missile defense. “If—”

“Ifs are quite pointless now,” put in Chernko sharply.

“Yes,” said Suzlov quickly. “Comrade Chernko’s quite correct. Who started it — the Chinese or the North Koreans— though I suspect Beijing — is of no account. The fact is, gas is being used. In any case, Beijing’s charging the Americans with it anyway. China radio broadcasts tying it in with napalm are very clever, for what are fuel air explosives like napalm if they aren’t chemical?”