The War in 2020

'Tenth Cav's already kicking ass,' Meredith said. 'The red dots indicate communications centers the heavy jammers have already leeched and physically destroyed. If those stations want to talk, they're going to have to wait until morning and send smoke signals.' Meredith made a gesture toward the screen. 'The yellow dots are the well- shielded comms nodes or those at our range margins. We can't actually destroy those, but they won't be able to communicate as long as Tenth Cav stays in the air.'

'Good,' Taylor said coldly. 'Good. Let those bastards feel what it's like to be on the receiving end.'

In a manner for which he could not account, Meredith suddenly saw the display through Taylor's eyes. And he knew that the old man was looking beyond the Iranian or Arab or rebel soldiers who suddenly found themselves powerless to share their knowledge with one another, looking behind them to the Japanese. Out there. Somewhere.

Taylor glanced at a screen mounted on the upper rack. It displayed the progress of the regiment's individual squadrons. Coursing down their axes of advance toward their initial objectives. Holding their fire. Moving with good discipline. A smaller symbol trailing Second Squadron showed the position of the command M-100 in which they were working and its two escort ships, which also functioned as the commander's hip pocket reserve.

The command net spoke again, demanding Taylor's attention. 'This is Whisky five-five. Over.'

'Sierra five-five. Go.'

'This is Whisky. You wouldn't believe the target arrays I'm passing up. The buggers must all be asleep. You sure you don't want us to take them out?'

'Negative,' Taylor said. 'Negative. Stick to the plan, Whisky. Save your bullets for the big one. Over.'

'It breaks my heart.'

'Weapons tight until Ruby,' Taylor said. 'Out.' Meredith understood this too: the difficulty of passing by your enemy without doing him harm. Especially now. With everyone aching to open up. To make the first kill.

To see if the megabuck wonders in which they were flying actually worked.

* * *

Noburu awoke unexpectedly. His bedding had clotted with sweat. He sensed that turbulent, unusual dreams had done this to him, but as his eyes opened, the delicate narratives of sleep fled from his consciousness, and he could not recall a single detail of the night visions that had broken his accustomed pattern of rest. Yet, even as he could not remember the substance of his dreams, he recognized with absolute clarity what was really worrying him. Although he sensed that his dreams had been of things far away, of lost things, he grasped that the swelling tumor of reality underlying all of this was the matter of the unusual activity in the industrial park outside of Omsk. He still had no idea what was going on there, but all of his soldier's instincts were excited. As if, in sleep, the shadow warrior within him had come to point the way. Noburu believed in the richness of the spirit as surely as he believed in superfast computers. And he knew that his spirit warrior would not let him return to sleep until this matter of the mystery site had been addressed.

Noburu waved his hand at the bedside light and a cool glow surrounded him. He reached for the internal staff phone and keyed it with his fingerprints.

'Sir, ' a sharp, almost barking voice responded from the below-ground operations center.

'Who is the ranking officer present?'

'Sir. Colonel Takahara. Sir.'

'I will speak with him.'

A moment later, Takahara's voice came over the speaker with a syllable of report only a little less violent than the voice of the junior watch officer.

Noburu felt himself shying from the purpose of the call, as though it were somehow too personal a matter to discuss.

'Quiet night?' he began.

'Sir,' Takahara responded. 'According to the last reports we received, the Iranian and rebel breakthrough at Kokchetav is meeting only negligible resistance. No change to the situation in the Kuban. We're having more difficulty than usual reaching our forward stations in northern Kazakhstan — but I've already sent a runner to wake the chief of communications. I expect to have the problem corrected shortly.'

'How long have the communications been down?' Noburu asked, annoyed.

'Half an hour, sir.'

Half an hour. Not unprecedented. But Noburu was unusually on edge. Hungover with dreams.

'What's the weather like in central Asia?'

There was a pause. Noburu could visualize Takahara straining to see the weather charts, or perhaps frantically querying the nearest workstation.

'Storm front moving in' — the voice came back. 'It's already snowing heavily at Karaganda, sir.'

'The famous Russian winter,' Noburu mused. 'Well, perhaps the communications problem is merely due to atmospherics.'

'Yes, sir. Or a combination of factors. Some of the headquarters may be using the cover of darkness to relocate in order to keep pace with the breakthrough.'

The explanation sounded rational enough. But something was gnawing at Noburu, something not yet clear enough to be put into words. 'Takahara,' he said, 'if the chief of communications cannot solve the problem, I want to be awakened.'

'Sir.'

'Modem armies… without communications…'

'Sir. The problem will be corrected. Sir.'

'Anything else to report?'

Takahara considered for a moment. 'Nothing of significance, sir. Colonel Noguchi called in for final clearance for his readiness drill.'

Air Force Colonel Noguchi. In charge of the Scramblers. The man was a terrible nuisance, staging one readiness test after another, flying dry missions. Aching to unleash the horrible, horrible toys with which Tokyo had entrusted him. Noburu understood, of course. You could not give a military man a weapon without inciting in him a desire to use it. Just to see.

But Noburu was determined that he would finish this business without resort to Noguchi and the monstrous devices. Let the colonel fly his heart out behind friendly lines. Noburu was not going to give him the chance to make history.

I'm too old for this, Noburu thought. He had always been told that the heart hardened with age, but if this was so, then he was a freak. As a young man, he had not understood concepts such as mercy, humanity, or even simple decency. He had loved the idea of war, and he had loved its reality, as well. But now his youthful folly haunted him. He had been a very good officer. And he was still a very good officer. Only it was much harder now. He knew he was responsible for every crude bullet that tore human flesh out there on those distant battlefields. Even the side for which the victim fought mattered less now. All men, he had reluctantly, painfully realized, truly were brothers, and he had misspent his life in a manner that could never be forgiven.

It was too late now. All he could do was to try to dress it all in a few rags of decency.

Colonel Noguchi was an excellent officer. Exactly the sort Tokyo sought out for promotion these days: a heartless technical master. Starving for accomplishment, for glory. Noburu had decided that such men needed to be saved from themselves. And the world needed to be saved, as well.

Noburu thought briefly of his enemies. Surely they hated him. Even if they did not know the least bit about him, they hated him. They hated him even if he had no name, no face for them. They hated him. And rightly so. Yet, they would never know how much he had spared them.

My fate is written, Noburu thought, even if I cannot yet read it. I will play my role. And I still hold the power. Noguchi can fly his readiness test. And he can dream.

'Are you still there, Takahara?'

'Sir.'

'Review Colonel Noguchi's flight plan. I don't want his systems anywhere near the combat zone.'

'Yes, sir. Shall I order the test delayed?'

'No. No, not unless it's otherwise necessary. Just review the flight plans. As long as they're sensible, the drill can go ahead.'