Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

Orlov nodded, the smile returning. “I have seen a great many field manuals for troops, General. I must say, this one is…unique.”

“It is written by one of yours, Major. A Russian naval captain, I believe. We have embraced its message, and only made alterations where needed. It is merely a history lesson, a recounting of just why we are fighting this war, what is at stake.”

Orlov rubbed his chin. “As I recall, you refer to General MacArthur as a Wall Street house dog, a professional murderer, a war criminal. It says that he has urged his troops to capture whatever spoils they might steal from the kindly people of Korea, including, of course, all the young girls. It is, I would say, delicious reading. I never realized the Americans were such barbarians. I had rather thought my navy’s captain had someone else in mind when he authored this, perhaps someone in Berlin.”

“You may dismiss this if you wish, Major. But we have adopted this manual for its intended effects on the dedication of our soldiers. I added my own orders, more specific to this fight before us. The American Marine is a rapacious beast, whose lust grows ever stronger as he embraces the pleasure from the punishment and torture he inflicts on the innocent citizen of Korea. I have instructed my soldiers to kill every Marine as he would a snake in his home. Every soldier has read this pamphlet, and if they did not believe it the first time, they will have read it again. And again. If he cannot read, his officers will read it to him.”

“I applaud you, General. It is a most effective piece of propaganda. We do what we must, eh?”

Sung thought a moment, said, “Am I accurate in observing that your Chairman Stalin distrusts his military officers?”

Orlov seemed caught off guard, his eyes wide, the smile returning. “In the past, there have been some problems that the Chairman has eliminated by removing certain negative elements.”

“Chairman Mao trusts his generals, Major. We are given the task of carrying out the Chairman’s vision, serving him with every means he has granted us. In this army, that requires us to use our soldiers as you would use bullets. It is the most effective way, perhaps the only way, we can crush the enemies of China. Right now, the enemy is offering us the enormous gift of his arrogance. He believes he has defeated us in battle. He will celebrate. He will become confident. And so he will become careless. Even now, the American Marines continue their march northward, on a single avenue, extending themselves farther into this difficult land. On either side of their march, my observers are watching, reporting to me exactly what I expect to hear. The strategy we shall employ is one that Chairman Mao perfected during our great struggle. Since you wish to observe us, then you may observe just what we shall do to win this war. I am positioning this army in the shape of a great wedge. It is not as a spear point, but just the opposite. It is a great open mouth, jaws wide, inviting the Americans to continue their march northward as though we are nowhere close. And when the time is right, the jaws shall close. Chairman Mao will celebrate another magnificent military victory, one that will carry China into a new age, where we do not kneel to anyone, not even your Chairman Stalin. My duty is clear, and my superiors are confident that my strategy will succeed. My army shall very soon destroy an entire division of American Marines.”

THE HELICOPTER CAME IN low over the river, Smith relieved to see the flat landing square appearing beneath him. The chopper settled more calmly now, the pilot easing the craft exactly in the center of the square. Smith waited for the impact, grateful as the chopper settled onto solid ground, allowing himself to relax on the hard seat. The pilot cut the engine, looked toward him with a smile, seemingly oblivious to Smith’s tension.

“Here you are, sir. Back home.”

Smith tried to return the smile. He slid out from the side of the craft, dropped down, steadied himself as always against the frame, fought to straighten his legs. He knew he was being unreasonable, that this ride had been no different than the others, the pilot skilled at skipping low over the tall hills, maneuvering the chopper through narrow passes. But the craft never felt wholly secure, even the pilots referring to them as buckets of loose bolts. That gave Smith no assurance at all, and more than once he had boarded the chopper only to pinch his fingers around various screws, a foolish effort to tighten whatever it might be that held the craft together.

The pilot had come around to his side, concern showing now on the young man’s face, his hand extended slowly, an offering Smith didn’t need.

“Can I help you, sir?”

Smith scowled at the young man, shook his head, stood without the aid of the chopper’s support. “Not at all, Lieutenant.”

“My apologies, sir. I didn’t mean to give you such a rough ride. The winds are pretty nasty in those hills.”

“No need. It was fine. You’re dismissed, Lieutenant.”

“Sir, do you mind if I tend to this bird’s maintenance? It’s protocol. Need to check the fluid levels.”

Smith knew that, scolded himself, the annoying uneasiness affecting his decorum. “Fine. Do the job.”

Smith eyed the headquarters building, another nondescript place, the former home of what seemed to be a low-level Korean official, that man long gone. He forced himself to steady steps, tried to ignore the painful stiffness in his knee, saw staff officers emerge, the sound of the helicopter drawing them out. He had no need to speak to any of them, the hard scowl on his face backing them away. Bowser was there now, a cup of coffee in the man’s hand, Bowser saluting him, a show for the enlisted aides. Captain Sexton emerged as well, said, “Welcome back, sir. Anything you require?”

“I’ll have some of that coffee.”

“Right away, sir. We have a visitor. Our friend General Lowe has returned.”

Smith stopped, couldn’t avoid a twinge of alarm, still didn’t trust that Truman’s man wasn’t there for more dirt than he seemed to admit.

“Just bring me the coffee, Captain. Not much in the mood for a visit .”

He stepped into the quarters, the usual smell of Korean spices and cigarette smoke, his aides dutifully engrossed in their usual labor. There were two other rooms to the rear, one established as the sleeping quarters for Smith and General Craig. He looked that way, thought, I wonder if Lowe’s staying long. The staff glanced up at him as he passed, smiles, short greetings. He nodded them away, moved to the first of the smaller rooms, what served now as his office. Craig was there, behind a small desk, another aide helping him with a radio set.

“Welcome back, General. Happy times at the front?”

It was an odd comment, and Smith said, “Litzenberg has his situation in hand. They’re regrouping, drawing up into a more practical position. It’s not easy. That blessed road isn’t wide enough for a donkey cart. At least the enemy’s pulled away, for now.”

“I suppose that’s good. General Lowe will be pleased to hear that, anyway.”

“Where is he?”

“Next door. Your quarters. He has an aide now. They’re setting up his sleeping arrangements.”

“What arrangements?”

“Spreading out his sleeping bag on the floor, right beside mine. We allowed you the larger space. I know the rules. So, apparently, does Lowe.”