Warshot

actually see the black side blasts coming out of the muzzle brake. It’s definitely a U.S. 155mm howitzer — towed, not self-propelled.”

“So?”

Normally Norton would have lowered his voice for what he was about to tell the general, but in the near- frantic hubbub of the HQ it was unnecessary. “This was fired at oh five hundred hours, General. Ten minutes before the first report from our side of Chinese fire.”

Freeman grunted, not wanting to acknowledge the frightening implication of Norton’s words. “Probably took ten minutes for our reports to get passed down the line. You know how it is. Fog of war, Dick. The fog of—”

“We had the report within a minute, sir. It looks like we fired first.” Norton continued, anticipating the general’s next question, “We’re trying to pinpoint the unit. Seems to be one of Five Corps’ batteries near Kulusutay. They shouldn’t be where they are, but maybe they saw ChiCom infantry on the move and changed positions for a better traverse. Anyway, we can’t raise them — either their radio’s out or—”

“Doesn’t make any difference,” said Freeman, and Norton knew the general was right. Whatever the cause, battle was joined.

The White House, however, demanded that responsibility for the first shot be “ascertained immediately. Repeat— immediately.” The decoded Most Secret message from the White House added that “all hell” had broken out in the U.N. — the suspicion that Freeman had precipitated a war trumpeted to near certainty by the media, especially the La Roche chain of newspapers in the U.S. and abroad. Already The New York Times had obtained from an “anonymous” source another print of the photograph from the Pentagon showing the “first shot” SATRECON snap, which the Times said was “confirmed by independent analysis” to be genuine, the time on the photograph being automatically registered on such satellite overflights on the bottom right-hand corner of the photograph.

With three Chinese group armies, in excess of 121,000 men, coming at Second Army’s left, or southern, flank— 64,000 men — Freeman was in no mood to bother with the White House request, but knew if he didn’t, he might be out of a job. He might be out of one anyway.

“Dick!”

“Sir?” It wasn’t Norton answering but the communications duty officer cutting in.

“What is it, Major?”

“Sir, Five Corps HQ say they’ve tried to reach the battery that supposedly fired first, but there’s no radio communication and the ChiComs are closing. Five Corps’ G-2 estimates that unless we haul them out within the next ten to twelve hours, the ChiComs will overrun the position.”

“Well, what in hell is Five Corps Air Cavalry doing?” demanded Freeman. “Sitting on their butts? Get the goddamn helos in there!”

“That’s part of the problem, sir. It’s still pretty cold, but the temperature’s rising — so now we have a lot of fog and we’ve run into Qing Fives.”

“Qing Fives!” retorted Freeman angrily, contemptuous of the Chinese fighter. “God damn it, Major, a Qing Five’s just a bucket of crap with a jet engine strapped to it.”

“Yes, sir. Our fighters’ll make mincemeat of the Qings all right when they get there, but the best they can do is keep the ChiComs away from the Five Corps battery. Getting helos in there to get our boys out is another question. ChiComs are reportedly using surface-to-air missiles even against our light reconnaissance aircraft.”

“God damn it!” said Freeman, glaring at the situation board. “Soviet munitions. What’d I tell you, Dick? Birds of a feather.”

“Well, sir, the Siberians haven’t moved.”

“And thank God for that,” replied Freeman. “Dick, send in a commando team to help get those Five Corps artillery battery guys out before the damn ChiComs overrun it.” Freeman glanced up at the Special Forces availability board. “We have any SAS/Delta Force men around?”

“David Brentwood. Guy you used on Ratmanov’s here somewhere in Khabarovsk.”

“Where in Khabarovsk?”

“I don’t know exact—”

“Well, find him, Dick. Tell him to get a team together— men he’s worked with before — I don’t want any screwups. Use Army Lynx helos to fly NOE. I want that SAS/D team in and out — fast. Tell them to rescue as many of our guys as possible and bring them straight to me. Try to get me the battery commander if possible so I can shoot the son of a bitch myself.”

Norton was already making notes and issuing orders for the best NOE — nap of the earth — Lynx chopper pilots in the division even as the “tote” board above Freeman’s HQ’s radio row was going crazy with blipping red lights, each the size of a glowing cigarette tip and representing a ChiCom regimental advance of over two thousand men, the “reds” outnumbering the stationary “blues,” the U.S. regiments, ten to one.

“What a screwup!” opined a radio operator, giving up his seat to his replacement, indicating the unofficial but widespread assessment of the situation.

“Shut up!” It was the duty officer reprimanding him.

Freeman held up his hand to intervene. “You got a complaint, soldier?”

The radio operator, who hadn’t realized the general was nearby, visibly gulped. “Complaint… no, sir.”

“Yes you have. We’ve got most of our divisions on Baikal’s west shore to stave off a Siberian violation of the cease-fire, and instead I get hit on the southern flank by the Chinese. Well, son, you’ve got every right to be mad. So am I.”

“Yes, sir.”

Freeman, putting his arm around the operator, steered him toward the coffee urn. “Tell you fellas something else…” Everyone was listening. “I’m gonna change that. Right about now.”

“Yes, General.”

With that, Freeman ordered alternate divisions — every second division on the Baikal line — pulled out to head southeast to block the Chinese advance on his southern flank, and ordered AIRTAC strikes against the ChiCom divisions to hold them off long enough “until the alternate divisions from Baikal can reach the Chinese and attack! We’re going to turn that goddamn ‘yellow peril’ into chop suey!”

The surge in morale that the general’s words produced was palpable in the HQ hut, and Norton shook his head at the duty officer, smiling in admiration of Freeman’s ability to so quickly raise the spirits of his troops. Freeman called Norton over. The general was still grinning, but his words told a different story. “Tell Washington I want every reserve, every ounce of gas, every bullet they’ve got, and I want it over here pronto. I know we can’t do it all by airlift, but get those big C-7s started, Dick. And get ‘em moving those convoys out from Pearl and the West Coast. I smell a big fucking rat — and his name’s Yesov. If that son of a bitch violates the cease-fire at Baikal, we’ll have a two-front war on our hands.” He paused, Norton noting that he was short of breath. “Any sign of him moving, Dick?”

“No, sir.” Norton indicated the met board. “There’re blizzard conditions around Baikal, anyway.”

“He could still move, Dick. Visibility or not. Besides, the temperature’s rising. Doesn’t feel like it, I know — but it is. Ice is starting to break up. Besides, blizzard’s only thing that can stop our air force, laser bombs and all. Not even the Stealths can laser designate targets in that lot.”

“I don’t think he’ll attack, General.”

“By God, I hope you’re right, Dick. Two-front war east and south. Our backs to the sea. Be a goddamn nightmare.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Between Irkutsk, forty miles west of Lake Baikal, and the lake, in the village of Bol’shaya Rechka, a babushka wrapped her black scarf tightly around her head before she stepped out on her porch. As she stooped to grasp the two splintery pine sticks that stood up from the frozen paper cups of milk, she heard a squeaking noise that reminded her of her youth on the communes: tractors starting the harvest. Then, the giant, Popsicle-like milks at her side, she stood transfixed, staring through the thick white curtain of falling snow, the enormous shapes becoming more distinct by the second — armor — tanks and enormous field guns, their weight on bipods atop the