Swiftly, he dialed a number, heard it ring, ring again.
A man’s voice answered with a name.
“This is Dr. Peter Thiokol,” he said, “calling from the South Mountain operational zone. I want to speak to my wife.”
Now was the lonely time. Dick Puller felt he ought to be doing something better, smarter, harder, more brilliant. Instead, he just sat there, puffing on a Marlboro, wondering why he ever decided to become a soldier, while inside it felt as though cold little spiders were crawling through his intestines. He felt so tight he could hardly breathe.
You became a soldier because you were good at it.
Because you always dreamed of leading desperate men in a desperate battle.
Because it seemed important.
Because it was in your genes.
Because you were scared to do anything you weren’t sure you’d be good at.
Dick puffed harshly on the cigarette. He was an old man, he knew, fifty-eight his last birthday, with lovely daughters and a wife he’d die for, the perfect soldier’s wife, who did much and asked little.
Your life has been one long self-indulgence, he thought, hating himself, wishing he could call her or the girls. He couldn’t. Jennie was married to a good Airborne major in Germany and Trish was in law school at Yale. And Phyllis — well, Phyllis wouldn’t know what to do if he called. He’d never called before, only sending her his dry little letters from various hot locales, lying cheerfully about the food (which was always bad) and the danger (which was always high) and the women (who were always numerous). If he called now, he’d scare her to death, and what good would that do?
“Sir, Sixguns One and Two airborne, checking in.”
His air force. The two gunships that would double as troop carriers and fly into the sure death of Stinger country.
“Acknowledge,” said Puller, listening as the battle began to orchestrate itself, outside his hands now that all the planning was done, all the speech-giving over, and it came down only to the boys and their rifles.
“Sir, Halfback and Beanstalk are in position at the IP.”
This was the Rangers, backed by Third Infantry.
“Acknowledge.”
“Sir, Cobra One reports onloading the slicks accomplished. Any messages?”
“No. Just acknowledge. You hear from Bravo yet?”
“That’s a negative, sir.”
“Figures,” Puller said, seeing in his head the slow and clumsy progress of the reluctant remnants of the National Guard unit in the dark toward their reserve position to the left of the assault line, straggling awkwardly through the snow and the trees, out of contact, scared and exhausted and very, very cold. Bravo would be slow tonight.
“Sir, it’s almost time. Will you be on the mike?”
“Yes, just a sec,” said Dick, lighting another butt.
Inside, he felt himself tightening even further. Somehow it hurt to breathe. His lungs ached, his joints pinched. So many things could go wrong. So many things
At this point at Midway, Raymond Spruance went to bed, figuring he’d done his best.
U. S. Grant got drunk.
Georgie Patton gave a lecture on patriotism.
Ike Eisenhower prayed.
Dick Puller went back to work.
Thinking, yes, still, now, with just minutes to go he might have missed something, he began to page again through the various Spetsnaz documents and photographs that had poured in the past hour or so. There was too much to be gotten through; he was simply scanning the material, hunting for associational leaps, for blind luck, for — well, for whatever.
The dope included more reports on known Spetsnaz operations, defector debriefings (significantly all third party; no known man had defected from a Spetsnaz unit proper); satellite photos, newspaper accounts, everything the CIA had vacuumed up in thirty years of Russia watching, which had been shipped him high speed via phone computer line.
Lazily, more to drive the anxiety from his brain than for any real reason, he skimmed through it.
What if the Rangers bog down and the pretty kids of Third Infantry turn out not to be worth a shit off a parade ground?
What if the Soviets have more men and ammo than we ever suspected?
What if there’s not as much titanium between Pashin and that key as we thought?
What if Thiokol can’t get through the shaft door?
What if the Delta assault team can’t fight its way to the LCC?
What if—
And then his eyes hit something.
“Stop the attack!” he screamed. “Tell all units to hold!”
“Sir, I—”
There was a pause and some fumbling at the other end as the FBI agents debated among themselves what to do. He thought they might be trying to cross-check the authenticity of his call over another line while he waited, and as he stood there, he felt his chest seem to fill with gravel and his breath wheezed between the loose stones.
Funny, he thought. The world may end tonight and yet that doesn’t mean a thing to me. But here I am waiting to talk to my wife and I’m shaking like a leaf.
He wondered if he had the strength for the next few minutes.
And then he heard her voice.
“Peter?”
Her voice had a sadness in it, as if weighted with regret. Megan never apologized, not formally, not for anything; but she had little signals by way of indicating her small responsibility for whatever might have happened, and it was in this softened tone he heard her say his name. It did exactly what he had willed it not to: it earned his instant and total forgiveness and his total surrender. Shorn of his moral certitude, he knew he was lost.
“Hi,” he said softly and raggedly. “How are you?”
“God, Peter, it’s so awful. These awful men. They’ve been here for hours.”
“It’s unpleasant, yes,” Peter said, irked instantly at the way he immediately agreed with her. “But look, you’ve got to give them everything you can. Later, if you can demonstrate how hard you worked for them, it’ll help. I guarantee it.”
“I suppose,” she said. “It’s just all so awful. They’re going to send me to prison, aren’t they?”
“A good lawyer will get you off. Your father will know some hotshot; he’ll get you out of it. I guarantee it, Megan.” He took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “Look, I don’t know what they’ve told you—”
“Not much. It’s something terrible though, isn’t it?”
“It’s a mess.”
“It’s all my fault, isn’t it?”
“No. It’s all
“Yes. Tell me what I can do.”
He paused.
“This Soviet officer you identified. The older man, Pashin.”
