Warshot

be a good man to put in the lead tank, Freeman thought. With that kind of chutzpa, he’d keep going where others would stop. Secret of an armored thrust was that you must never stop; your mobility was the best chance of securing victory and survival.

“Well,” continued Freeman, “our Russian friends in July, 1990—Soviet high command, to be exact — reported they had forty-one thousand tanks in Europe. Forty-one thousand, five hundred and eighty to be precise, gentlemen. Under the COFIE — conventional forces in Europe — treaty, a significant number of those tanks were to be destroyed, and so four months later the Soviets told us there were now only twenty thousand Soviet tanks in Europe. The question, however, gentlemen, was — I should say is—where did the other twenty thousand go? Scrap heap?” Freeman shook his head. “No, sir—none of them were junked. Not a one! We found out that many of the remainder were moved east of the Urals — out of Europe — just before the treaty document about ‘tanks in Europe’ was signed, and some were sent to the new central Asian republics. Now there were still eight thousand tanks missing, gentlemen, and if you’re puzzled about them, I can tell you that it was revealed in Sovetskaya Rossiya—a Russian paper — that the missing eight thousand tanks had been put in ‘storage bases’ in western Siberia and central Asia. Tanks, gentlemen — T-72s with laser sighting, thermal imaging, and applique armor — all of which could be used against us at any time. So my standing order is to keep your powder dry and make damn sure none of your forward OPS doze off—’specially during blizzards when our air cover from here west to Baikal will effectively be reduced to zero, even with our infrared capability. Any observer falls asleep at his post, I’ll have him flayed alive plus a hundred dollar fine for each man in the squad. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the officer in charge busted to private.”

No one answered. Freeman was as frustrated as Norton had seen him. He had tried to warn the American people and the Congress of the danger a few days before, during his press conference in Khabarovsk, but for this he’d been attacked. Now, holding up one of the La Roche papers, he let the new members of his staff see the screaming four-inch headline: WARMONGER!

“What do you think?” he asked his staff. “Am I a warmonger? Anybody here think these jokers’ll rest with American troops on Siberian soil? When they’ve got us surrounded north to Yakutsk, west beyond Lake Baikal, south to Mongolia?”

No one cared to answer him.

“Warmonger!” he said, throwing the La Roche paper down. “Well, they’re right—when I see war coming. Like Churchill. My God, this is Saddam Insane all over again. Should have gone after that son of a bitch right into Baghdad. I’d have personally shot the mad bastard. Know how many Kurds we would have saved? Men, women, and children? Never mind Iraqis.” Freeman snatched up his cap and the thick beech stick he’d honed to a pointer, his tone changing — as if suddenly, uncharacteristically, resigned to the foibles of Washington and the State Department doyennes of Foggy Bottom. “Meanwhile,” he continued in a world-weary voice, “all those armchair fairies in State and the Pentagon are pumping the president full of— restraint.” He said it as if it were a dirty word, the beech stick smacking hard against the massed divisions west of Baikal. “Only restraint this crowd’ll understand will come from the barrel of an M-1 tank. Which is why, gentlemen, if I’m any judge, I expect to be ‘recalled for consultation’ any day.”

If some of the officers were surprised, Dick Norton wasn’t. He’d got the first fax copy of the New York Times that morning, and if, unlike the La Roche tabloids, the mainstream papers weren’t exactly calling Freeman a warmonger — their more genteel prose amounted to the same thing. The Times had written:

General Douglas Freeman has proved to have been not only a loyal implementor of U.S. national policy, but a prescient and brilliant soldier. The raid he led on Pyongyang, the brilliant strategy that allowed the Allies to break out of the infamous Soviet-ringed Dortmund/Bielefeld pocket on the north German plain earlier in this conflict, and his dashing seizure of the initiative once the Siberian military threat in Lake Baikal had been realized, have made his name synonymous in the history of American arms with “daring” and “brilliant,” if at times “eccentric,” leadership.

This having been said, however, we believe that the time has come for Douglas Freeman to be recalled, as he was once the European threat was quashed. He is a fighting general, and not, as is increasingly being pointed out in the Congress, a peace general. He has done his job extraordinarily well, and the nation, as it did upon his return from Europe, should shower its honors upon him for his outstanding leadership of operation “Arctic Front,” which made it possible for the present cease-fire to be instigated. But now it is time for someone else to take his place in Siberia. He is, as he was in Europe — and there is no easy way to say this — too “volatile” for the peace. He is a soldier’s soldier, and one who has much to teach in the staff colleges of the nation. With the battlefield now thankfully silent, and with spring imminent, it is fitting that with a change in season there be a change in command, a transition from the time of war to a season of hope.

“By God!” Freeman had commented upon seeing the editorial, whipping off his reading glasses, conveying the impression he didn’t really need “visual assist,” when he plainly did. He was certain The New York Times and other papers were merely parroting administration policy, which he believed had been deliberately leaked to signal his end. “Where do those Pentagon fairies get that horse manure from, Dick? ‘Season of hope’! Good God, don’t they understand the Siberians outnumber us more than five to one?”

Dick Norton thought it inadvisable to remind the general that before the cease-fire, one of the Pentagon fairies he’d referred to had won the Silver Star in the vicious fighting on the road east of Skovordino, and that in his view Washington might be right. Norton looked down at the editorial. “Sounds like James Knutson to me — Yale, not the Pentagon.”

“Well,” grumped Freeman, his hands cupping a mug of coffee as he overlooked the frozen Amur River from his Khabarovsk HQ, the tall, war-scarred smokestacks reaching into the ice-cold blue, “it’s an Ivy League fairy, then. Worst kind. Don’t realize their freedom to pontificate upon national policy has been paid for in blood from Iwo Jima to this…” He paused, searching for the right word to describe the confluence of vast mountain ranges and endless taiga of fir, beech, larch, silver pine, and the steppe beyond Baikal. It was so vast, whole armies had been swallowed by and could hide in it without a trace. “Soon be spring,” he said. But there was none of the optimism with which most others on his staff had been anticipating the coming of the season. “Ice’ll start to melt. There’ll be floods. Our tanks could be in a quagmire. Immobile.” He took a sip of coffee, its steam condensing.

The HQ door banged open, a G-2 lieutenant stamping his feet, shucking off the snow. “ ‘Cept for the permafrost,” Freeman went on. “That’s rock-hard. But that won’t help us when the rivers start to crack.” Norton could see that even as the general was speaking, his conversation about the cold was evidence of a much deeper concern about whether the cease-fire would hold. He wanted it to, but to be caught napping at any of the hundreds of weak points along the vast “box” was a heavier load than anyone else was carrying, here or back in the Pentagon. “What do you think, Dick?” Freeman asked. “Don’t dress it up. You think they’ll attack in winter?”

“No, sir — I think the cease-fire’ll hold. Summer’s the time for war in this country. They sure as hell won’t try to move while Lake Baikal is frozen. We could reinforce our M-1 battalions on the western shore in a matter of hours— just scoot across that lake with close air support A-10 Thunderbolts riding shotgun. They’d soon sort out the T-72s. Look what they did on the road to Basra.” Norton was talking about the massacre the Thunderbolts had wrought in the Iraqi desert with their Volkswagen-sized gun mount forward of the plane’s titanium “bath” seat — the Thunderbolts’ thirty-millimeter cannon chopping up Hussein’s fleeing armored columns, sending them careening in panic. “Besides, General, Baikal won’t even begin to melt till late spring — four, six weeks away at least.”

“Maybe, Dick, but I don’t trust ‘em. I want to know the moment that son of a bitch starts to crack.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Under the rules,” Freeman said contemptuously, putting down his cap, the beech stick’s knobby end smacking the four-hundred-mile-long lake, “we can move anything but food supply trucks across the lake. Washington says anything else would give the wrong signal to Novosibirsk.”

“Yes, sir. I know.”

Freeman pulled his gloves on, deciding to leave after all, stretching the fur-lined leather into a fist. Dick Norton opened the door for him and immediately turned his face from the icy blast. “You tell me, Dick, the moment that ice starts to melt — first goddamn crack. You hear?”