him out on a fifty-to-one trade.” The general shook his head with the frustration he knew he’d have to live with. “God, Dick, I’d hoped to wrap things up tighter. Wanted to beat the bastards so bad they’d never—”
“If the underground movement rises up, General, maybe you can.”
Freeman’s head whipped around. “How do you mean?”
“General, Taiwan has the best air force and navy in Asia. They’ve never given up the mainland as their home. It’s through their agents we have contact with the Manchurian underground. If people inside rise up like they did before the Beijing massacre, Taiwan could go in — if they thought there was enough internal support.”
“How about external support?” probed Freeman, his blue eyes as intense as winter cold.
Norton gave one of his noncommittal shrugs, but Freeman knew that what it really meant was, I’m not going to say it.
Freeman was plainly excited. “Dick, who’s their head honcho? Taiwan?”
“Political or military?”
“Don’t fart around, Dick.”
“Admiral Lin Kuang.”
“We train him?”
Norton nodded. “Annapolis. Cum laude.”
“Dick, I want you to invite Admiral Kuang to Tokyo HQ. Incognito. We’ll ‘do’ lunch. Everything top of the line. American.”
“Yes, General. You have anything in mind?”
“Yes. I want that man back. He’s a brave man, Dick, and good. Brave men don’t belong in Chinese jails.”
“Yes, sir, but I mean the menu for Admiral Kuang.”
“What — oh, yes. Well, let’s see… soup for starters, clam chowder — Boston cream, not Manhattan. Main course — prime rib.
“Yes, sir,” said Norton, taking notes, the mention of “prime rib” making him hope he’d be at the table with Freeman and Kuang. He asked the general about dessert.
Freeman looked up into the cold blackness, and even though it looked like winter, he could smell, feel, that spring was stirring.
“What was that, Dick?”
“What kind of dessert will we offer?”
Freeman turned to him. “You haven’t been listening to me, Colonel.”
Norton looked at him, nonplussed. The general moved closer toward him, his face no more than six inches from Norton’s. “China, Dick! That’s the dessert. China!”
Norton felt himself taking a deep breath. The general, ice encrusting the stars on his helmet, looked southward across the vast taiga. “This is a wanker’s — a Yugoslav — ceasefire, Dick. Those bastards in Beijing are pinning the logistical tail back on their dragon. Well, if it starts breathing fire again, I’m going to give it something to roar about. I’ll chop the son of a bitch off at the neck! You still got that wolf dung in storage?”
Norton looked about nervously for any sign of reporters around the general’s Quonset hut, its frozen arch dripping in the darkness as spring’s thaw crept upon them. Norton saw a “covey,” as the general called photojoumalists, waiting for them by the headquarters. They would probably want some answers about Cheng’s refusal to release Smythe and, now it was suspected, several MIAs — air crew lost along the Amur. Sometimes, as now, Norton was convinced that the photojoumalists and others were less interested in a news story or a picture of Freeman next to his wall charts than they were in the headquarters coffee, said to be the best brewed in the entire Second Army. Proof of his theory came as they entered the HQ with the reporters, not a question being answered before everyone had their mug of steaming brew. Freeman was still agitated following his conversation with Cheng, and Norton knew he’d probably have to run interference for any of the dumber questions asked by any of the neophytes among the group.
Before the correspondents were upon them, Freeman instructed Norton to make sure they had lots of wolf dung ready in the event of a breakdown in the cease-fire.
“Yes, sir, I will.”
“General?” asked the redheaded CBS beauty. “Have you any plans to run for public office?”
“Hell, no. I’m not that old.” There was the usual smatter of polite laughter. “B’sides, my opinion of politicians—”
“Next question!” cut in Norton, pointing to ABC.
“General, it’s rumored you sent a message to the president that this is a Yugoslav cease-fire.”
“Yugoslavia no longer exists,” said Freeman.
Very adroit, thought Norton.
“General?” It was a CBC woman with a French-Canadian accent. “Sir, is it true that a Siberian woman is to be granted the Medal of Freedom?”
“It is. That’s no secret. Her name is Alexsandra Malof. She’s done a magnificent job for us. Magnificent. She’s in hospital in Khabarovsk at the moment, but we intend to recognize her — soon as she’s well enough.”
Norton thought it a nice point the general made — its international implications would rebound against Cheng. He’d have to be a lot more careful about how he looked after his prisoners, particularly American prisoners.
“What’s wrong with her, General?” It was a stunning Estonian blond photojournalist who had already driven several junior aides gaga.
“Ms. Malof,” replied Freeman, “is suffering from acute malnutrition, visual impairment, and severe gastric disorders due to her imprisonment by the Chinese Communists.”
Norton smiled approvingly. Cheng would now definitely be on the spot. No way would they kill Smythe. By the time they put him on the stand, he’d probably look overweight.
The press conference lasted another ten minutes, and then Freeman took time off for coffee, the young blonde from Estonia handing him a cup. “It is very nice of you, General, to agree to the film opportunity. You are a great hero in Tallin.” She could see the general didn’t understand. “Tallin is the capital of—”
“Yes, yes, I know that,” said Freeman, scrambling quickly to recover good manners. “Yes, of course, I realize Tallin—”
Norton came to the rescue, which was just as well, for though he had omitted to inform the general, it was he who had okayed the Estonian request for a short picture opportunity with the general.
“Estonian press wanted to do a, uh, little profile on you, General. You know the kind of thing…”
No, Freeman did not know the kind of thing. Never had known the kind of thing the general public were interested in — pictures of where you ate, your favorite colors, your favorite food — damn wonder they didn’t want to see you take a piss. But the blonde was smiling, and having taken off her parka, her figure poured into a white angora wool body suit momentarily caused a pause in all radio traffic in Freeman’s tent.
“Very well,” Freeman conceded. “Where do you want me to stand?”
“We were hoping, General, that we might get one or two pictures of your planning table—”
“Planning table?”
“Uh, I think the lady means where you figure out tactics and—”
“Yes, yes, I know,” said Freeman, neither wanting to offend the blond goddess nor appear in any way inept. “Well, I do most of my planning here — at the large wall map, and in my room. Now if you like, we could have a picture here, but I’m afraid the background board will have to go past the censor before I can let you—”
“No, no,” said the blonde sweetly. “Of course I understand, General. Nothing classified. Perhaps just a shot or two of your sleeping quarters. Would that be all right?”
“Yes, certainly. Right this way,” said Freeman; another blonde, this one a photographer, bringing up the rear.
The communications duty officer walked over to Norton. “Think the old man can handle that?” he asked Norton, nudging him.
“Oh I think so, the general’s—”
“Christ! You all right, Colonel?”
Suddenly Norton had remembered the press question weeks ago about the rumors of a possible OMON
