WW III

Banks, arms folded, was looking at his shoes. He had personally authorized the issue of.5 mg sublingual Lorazepam before it was known who would be commanding the hastily assembled mobile force.

“Now,” continued Freeman, walking, hands on hips, across the small podium, stopping, facing the men, his voice reaching every corner of the hangar deck, “I know you’ve all been through the drills, the maps, the platoon assignments.” He paused. “But there’s something else you should know. When you go into battle I want you to know who you are, where you are, and what the hell you’re doing. I want you shooting gooks, not one another. So — before you disembark, indeed before you dismiss this evening, you will dispense with any pills you were issued with and any other pills you may have in your possession, depositing them with the padre.”

The padre, in the front row, looked up, surprised.

“If he runs out of pockets, put them in his helmet. I don’t want any space-head shooting up his section because he popped a pill too many and thought you were all gooks — even though you’re better-dressed than any gooks I’ve ever seen, and that includes that runt, Kim Jong II, who—”

The troops were loosening up, the laughter coming more easily now.

“An evil piece of shit,” continued the general, “who, by the way, when you were trying to get your first piece of ass, was trying to figure out how to murder innocent civilians and who is as evil a bastard as Qaddafi, Hitler, that shit Pol Pot, or any other son of a bitch ever hoped to be.” The anger in Freeman’s eyes was so intense, Al thought the general was about to jump right off the stage, his forefinger sweeping across his audience, his lone star glinting in the hangar light. “It is our duty to go in and give that son of a bitch such a shake-up and hopefully kill the bastard, so that his henchmen will think twice about ever attacking the United States of America again.”

The general paused again and, glancing along the front rows, saw the padre was not at all fazed by the profanity. “To teach them a lesson,” Freeman went on, “namely that they’ve bitten off more than they can chew because the United States of America will not — I repeat, not — give up the ghost in Korea and that if they persist in their butchery, we’ll get tougher still and nuke the sons of bitches into oblivion!”

There was a roar of approval. The padre, Freeman noticed with satisfaction, was distinctly uncomfortable. The general’s voice dropped.

“Now, I’ve heard that someone says this is a hopeless mission — a suicide mission, politically motivated. Well, I don’t lead suicide attacks, and I won’t give you any BS about minimum casualties. We’re going into the enemy’s belly and I expect casualties to be heavy. But we’ll be coming out!” There was still silence.

“As for it being politically motivated — hell,” said the general, shaking his head, “I don’t know what that means. All I know is anything we don’t like — don’t care for — becomes politically motivated. We are instruments of national policy. Our profession is not peace, it’s war. That’s what we’re paid for — to go in there — not to walk softly and carry a big stick but to give ‘em the stick right up their heathen ass.”

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?”