Ian Slater - WW III

Some whistles and a smattering of laughter. The padre was clearly angry.

“Another thing,” Freemen continued. “I know some of you have been wondering why an airborne assault when we could launch bombing runs. Two good reasons. One — Pyongyang, which here on out will be referred to in all directives and communications as ‘Crap City,’ is festooned with surface-to-air missiles and MiGs on alert. Our choppers will be going in low, and the SAMs, which are most effective at high altitude, will have extreme difficulty discriminating among low-flying aircraft with ground clutter thrown in. And we’ll be hill-hopping all the way. Furthermore, we’ll have fighter cover from Salt Lake City to help confuse the SAMs when they scramble their MiGs to meet our boys. But the most important reason for sending in this force is that we have learned, contrary to all the armchair experts, think tanks, and God knows what else, that bombing fails to cut the head from the snake, including Miss Jane Fonda.”

“Give it to her, General!”

“No comment!”

A roar of laughter. The padre’s face had now turned from anger to disgust.

“What we have repeatedly found out, and here I don’t wish to malign our comrades in arms in the air force — they do a damned fine job — but we have repeatedly found, most spectacularly with that dung heap Qaddafi, that you can send in the whole damned air force, with ‘Smart’ bombs to boot, kill everyone, and miss the son of a bitch in his tent. That is why the prime target of this foray is to take that runt out of circulation. Permanently!” The soldiers were clapping and stomping now.

“So that your families, your children, no longer have to live in a world where slime-balls rule the roost.”

There was thunderous applause. The general held up his hand.

“You’re scared. So are the boys who’ll go into Taegu and Chongju. I understand that.” He waited. “But you keep your powder dry, pass the ammunition as your forebears did, and you’ll be all right. Above all, remember this is no mixed-up slugfest inhibited by peace pansies and Fondas running riot in your country. This is a war which all true Americans, together with our allies, know is right beyond the shadow of a doubt. That monkey ‘cross the line — he has no honor, no decency, no conscience. This isn’t a mission, it’s a crusade, and you’re the bearers of the flag. God bless you.”

As the general walked down from the podium, there was the sound of over a thousand men rising, forming lines according to company and platoon. Before Freeman left the deck, Al Banks introduced him to the padre assigned to the Saipan.

“Pleased to meet you, General.”

“But you didn’t like my speech?”

The padre hesitated, “Ah — no, General. I didn’t.”

“Quite all right, Padre,” said Freeman, pulling on his leather gloves tightly. “Difference of opinion. Was there anything in particular you objected to?”

“I thought your remarks about the North Koreans — though I understand your intention — were — I mean, categorizing a whole race in—”

“Padre. We’re not going up against the Sisters of Charity. We’re going to do battle with the Philistines — NKA special forces, their best militia, best home guard… top-of-the-line killers. I mean NKA special forces. Booby-trap their own kin if they thought it would kill Americans. They hate us more than any people on earth. I understand your position, Padre, and it’s admirable — in its place. But these jokers my boys’ll be fighting have never heard of any commandment, let alone ten of them. And I don’t want any of my men thinking about loving their neighbors when they file out of those whirlybirds.” Freeman moved so close to the padre that the latter felt distinctly uncomfortable. Freeman was pulling his gloves on tighter. “I’ve seen the devil, Padre, and the son of a bitch lives in Pyongyang and I’m going after him. I’m putting a bounty on his head.” The general looked quickly at the other officers in line. “I want it known, gentlemen, that anyone who brings me the head of Kim Jong Suck will personally get a field citation and ten thousand dollars!”

The padre’s eyes widened. “General, none of us have the authority—”

“Padre. I need you in the field. A lot of my boys are going to die. Are you coming along or going to rest your butt in the officers’ lounge?”

“The padre’s already volunteered,” put in Captain Al Banks.

Freeman murmured, nodding approvingly, but the fierceness was still in his eyes. “Good. I need brave men.”

“That padre,” said Freeman as he left the hangar with his aide. “He’s a good man.”

“Yes, General, I think he is.”

“I say he is. Only one thing wrong with him.” They were walking back past the helicopter crews in the forward hangar area.

“What’s that, General?”

“Didn’t you see it? Stood out a mile.”

“I’m not sure—”

“Egg on his vest. I won’t tolerate that, Al. You get the word out.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I ever tell you my father was a keen sportsman?”

“Not that I—”

“Baseball, football, of course. Golf — God, he even liked tennis.”

“I like tennis, General.”

“You do?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, can’t be helped. Never took to it myself. Son of a bitch sitting on that high chair, yelling out every shot. ‘Course, my father wouldn’t have it any other way. And dress code— that’s what I’m getting at, Al. Uniform instils pride in a man. First thing you learn in basic training. Now, that padre, you see, he thinks he’ll get closer to the men more laid-back, more slovenly he appears. Doesn’t work.”

“It was only a very small piece of egg, General.”

Freeman ignored the captain’s comment. “You play baseball?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I notice you’re a sou’ paw — left-hander.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. We’ll make a good team, Al.”

The captain was nonplussed. Freeman stepped out into the cold night air, the blackness all around them like a great velvet blanket; not a light could be seen. “You on my left, me on the right. It’s my intention to be in the first chopper. I don’t want anyone saying Freeman freeloaded — took the last chopper in.”

“I don’t think anyone would, General.”

“I’ve got enemies, Al. Say I’m too flamboyant. Too full of myself. Waiting for me to take a fall. You think that? — I’m a windbag?”

“No, sir-I-”

“Yes you do, you son of a bitch. Well, Al, tomorrow at cockcrow we’ll find out.”

Above them they could hear a faint squeaking as the concave dish on the main radar mast passed through a 180-degree sweep, its signal pulsing out into the darkness toward the enemy’s shore.

Inside the hangar, in the long line of soldiers approaching the padre, who had now commandeered a second helmet, a private, first class, a helo side gunner, who, like most of the soldiers in the hangar, had never been in combat before, was veering between sheer fright and the bravado instilled by the general’s speech, asking his comrades imploringly whether a packet of nasal decongestant capsules qualified as a pill he should surrender.

“What’s it do to you?” asked a corporal from one of the Saipan’s Medevac choppers. “Slow you down or jack you up?”

The worried private nipped over the packet. “… Says might cause drowsiness, not to operate machinery.”

“Aw, shit,” said the medic, “take the fucking lot. Any luck, you’ll sleep through it all.”

“What’s your helo number?” asked a marine.