Looking at his weary companion, Ryder suddenly had a sense of things far greater than any single man, of things beyond words, of worlds in motion and the power of history. The hour of the Americans had come.
11
General Noburu Kabata sipped his Scotch, marveling at his unhappiness. Professionally, he had every reason to be pleased. The offensive continued to make splendid progress. The Soviets were all but finished east of the Urals, and they were in serious trouble between the Urals and the Caucasus. None of the problems within the friendly forces appeared insurmountable, and there was no apparent reason why all of the military goals of the operation should not be fulfilled. This was a time for joy or, at least, for satisfaction. For, even though his status was nominally that of a contract adviser to the Islamic Union and the government of Iran, this was his operation, the highlight of his career, and a triumph for Japanese policy. Yet, here he was drinking Scotch on an empty stomach, in the morning.
His father would not have approved. His father, who had pushed his eldest son to become a master of the golf club, rather than of the sword, as had been the family tradition. In Japan, he remembered his father saying, there was nothing more important than the ability to play a good round of golf — even for a general. And he remembered the vacation on which he had accompanied his father, so very many years before, to the golf courses of Pebble Beach, in California. He remembered the perfect greens along the stony, splashing coast, the remarkable private homes set among the cypresses, and his father's quiet comment that someday these careless, irresponsible Americans would be their servants.
His father had loved Scotch. He had trained himself to appreciate it, just as he later conditioned his son to the gentleman's drink of choice. So much was handed down. The tradition of bespoke suits from H. Huntsman & Sons of 11 Saville Row, the preference for the links of Scotland, the family military tradition that was older than the game of golf or the patent of any tailor shop. He knew his father would have been very proud of his military record, graced with achievements of a sort denied the older generation. But the elder general would not have approved of the consumption of alcohol in the morning, on duty.
Noburu consoled himself with the thought that he never lost control with alcohol. The drink was merely to better his temper in the face of yet another frustrating meeting with the foreign generals who commanded the armies executing his plan. Shemin, the Iraqi-born commander of the Islamic Union's forces, was a sharp politician, occasionally helpful in mediating disputes with the Iranians. But he was no soldier. Merely a strongman's brother, on whose shoulders his family had sewn epaulets. Shemin would have been far more at home plotting a coup than in planning a battle. On the positive side, Shemin usually accepted Noburu's plans and carefully worded orders, even when he did not quite understand them. But, on his bad days, Shemin struck Noburu as a typical Arab — illogical, apt to become fixated on the wrong thing at the wrong time, dishonest, subject to emotional outbursts, and very difficult to control when he was not in the right mood.
Tanjani, the Iranian commander, was worse. As fanatical as he was inept, he liked nothing better than to rear like a snake and spit poisonous accusations at Noburu. Nothing was ever good enough for the Iranian, who did not even begin to understand the physical principles that made the weapons that Japan had put into his hands function. The Iranian grasped only what was immediately visible to him and seemed to have no sense at all of the incredibly complex levels of warfare carried out in the electromagnetic spectrum. Of course, the others hardly understood the business themselves. Even Biryan, the commander of the Central Asian forces in revolt against the Soviet yoke, had only a nebulous understanding of the invisible battlefields flowing around the physical combat on the ground. Biryan was the most professional of the three subordinate commanders, the best schooled in military affairs. But he was also the most relentlessly savage, a man who could never drink his fill of blood. Noburu hated dealing with them, and their meetings always left him feeling soiled.
He took a sip from his glass, feeling the diluted liquid soak bitterly over his tongue, leaving a taste of acid and smoke. Then he shifted his eyes to the shoulders of his aide, who sat at the commander's private workstation, sifting through incoming reports for those that might require Noburu's personal review. The aide could be trusted to eliminate all but the essential. He had an unerring eye for the material his commander needed. Akiro was a fine officer from a very good family, and Noburu had no doubt that the younger man, too, would be a general one day. But Noburu had not selected the man for either his bloodlines or his professional abilities. There were other young officers possessed of greater talents and technical skills than Akiro. Noburu had chosen Akiro as his aide because the younger man was a perfect conformist.
If ever Noburu wondered what his own superiors or peers would think about a given matter, he had only to ask Akiro's view. Akiro was the perfect product of the system, convinced of its rightness, of its perfection. Of course, Noburu realized, he, too, had once been much like that, believing, if not in the perfection of the system, at least in its ultimate perfectibility. Now, on the verge of triumph, Noburu felt himself laden with doubts, almost physically bowed, as though each doubt were a brick piled upon his shoulders. He finished his Scotch, draining the last bit of sour water, and put the glass down. He would not have another.
Perhaps, he told himself, it was only the business about the Americans. An overreaction, almost a superstitious response to the shock of his success. His senior intelligence officer's report that unprecedented communications had been detected between Washington and Moscow nagged at him. Tokyo was not concerned. There was little the Americans could do, even if they did elect to intervene. The United States was far away, and the American forces remained tied down in Latin America — and if Tokyo had its way, they would be tied down there forever. The United States had retreated into its determination to maintain hegemony in its own hemisphere, and the rest of the world had received scant attention of late. In any case, what did the Americans owe the Soviets? It was not merely a military equation — Tokyo did not believe that the United States could muster the financial wherewithal to intervene. And, militarily, no one believed that the United States could compete with Japanese technology — an impossible task. No, the United States had been taught a good lesson, as Noburu knew firsthand from his experience as a young lieutenant colonel in Africa. They would not be anxious for another such humiliation. Primitive exchanges in the Brazilian backcountry were one thing; a full-scale confrontation with Japanese heavy weaponry was an entirely different matter. Even if the U.S. had not honored its treaty commitments and had hidden away a cache of nuclear weapons, none of their delivery systems could penetrate Japan's strategic defense shield, and any tactical employment on the field of battle could be parried militarily and exploited politically. At most, the Americans could send the Soviets an Air Force contingent — which Noburu's forces would simply knock out of the sky.
He had firsthand experience at knocking Americans out of the sky. He knew how very easily it could be done. Yet, beyond the strictures of logic, his instincts had perked up at the mention of the communications link between Washington and Moscow, and he wished the intelligence service would find a way to break into the system and decipher what the Soviets and Americans were discussing. For now, there was only the information that such a link existed, and that shred of information tantalized Noburu. Perhaps, he thought, it was only his fear that the dreams would come again. It was difficult enough with these Arabs and Iranians and the squalid minor peoples of Central Asia. He was not certain that he could bear the return of those dreams and still exercise sound judgment.
He thought again of the impending meeting, wondering how he could ever bring such men to their senses. Noburu certainly did not consider himself a softhearted man. His worldview was one of duty intermingled with existential— and physical — pain. But he could not reconcile himself to the way these savages made war. Personally, quietly, he was proud of the fact that he had not needed to employ the Scramblers to accomplish his mission. To Noburu, such weapons were inhumane beyond the tolerance of the most hardened warrior, and he was not pleased that his nation had gone to such lengths to develop them. Noburu pictured himself as an old-fashioned military man, a man of honor. And he saw no honor whatsoever in weapons such as the Scramblers. He had carefully concealed them from the men who were technically his employers and theoretically his allies. Once Shemin, Tanjani, and Biryan were aware of the existence of such devices, they would hound Tokyo until the Scramblers were employed. And then warfare would reach a level of degradation that Noburu did not care to contemplate.
Perhaps it was age, he told himself. Perhaps he was going soft after all. But he worried that Japan had made
