the Orgon Tal branch line.
It was enough to put the PLA in the sector on full alert. In response, Freeman immediately sent out an FAV — fast-attack vehicle — reconnaissance patrol as the sky was already clouding over, obscuring satellite intelligence. The explosion on the branch line and Cheng’s reaction to it meant that for the first time in the three weeks they had known one another Aussie Lewis and Alexsandra Malof were separated.
CHAPTER SIX
“Who complained?” Freeman demanded without taking his eyes off the huge wall map of the three provinces of Hopei, Shantung, and Honan.
“I don’t have her name yet, General,” answered Colonel Norton, Freeman’s longtime aide, and he was glad he didn’t. If Freeman found out who the female was who had complained directly to the Pentagon, he’d go ballistic.
“If I’ve said it once,” Freeman roared, “I’ve told those Washington fairies a thousand times, a tank is no place for a woman. Period! It’s cramped, it’s crowded — goddamn it, Dick!” he said, turning away from the map momentarily. “Why am I plagued by these skirts that are so hell-bent on getting their tits ripped off during the reload? Don’t they understand? There are no seat belts inside, no restraints. Shell ejection can break an arm just like that!”
“All I know,” Norton said quietly, “is that it’s a perennial complaint against Second Army. And General, you are obliged by Congress to—”
“To hell with Congress. See any of those jokers in a tank? By God, remember Dukakis? And now they want me to put those delicate creatures inside an M1A1?” He suddenly sounded terribly old-fashioned. He was an anachronism in many ways — still stood up for a woman when she entered a room, opened doors for them, and was even known to give up his seat on the military buses on the way to postmaneuver conferences at Fort Irwin, for he made a point of traveling with his troops.
No wonder the callow young Turks thought of him as an early twentieth-century man.
“General,” Norton advised him cautiously, “no matter what your personal feelings, the Pentagon has approved women for combat in all—”
Freeman turned angrily on his aide, then suddenly stopped his tirade, exhaling heavily, whacking a stripped stick of birch against his boot. The birch stick-cum-pointer-cum-swagger stick had traveled down with him from the northwestern part of Manchuria, where the deciduous oak forests, linden, and white pine ran right out to the edge of the northeasterly margin of the Gobi. “Well, Dick — you’re right of course.”
“I think that’s sensible, General.”
“Yes, by God, I bet you do. You’re with Congress on this, aren’t you?”
“Well, sir, the navy already—”
“Yes, yes, I know. And you think I’m a stick in the mud.”
“On strategy — no way, sir. But in this matter I think we’re dragging our feet.”
“Yes, sir, we are.”
“All right — all right — but not in my HQ company.”
“I’m not suicidal, General.”
“Huh,” Freeman grunted affably, “guess not. Give them to Hersh — he’s a ladies’ man. He can tuck ‘em in tight, but remember what I’ve said before. When nature calls and we’re in the middle of a battle, they’re going to have to pee and the rest of it in their helmets — same as everybody else. Period or no period — understand?”
“I’m sure they already know that, General.”
“Knowing and experiencing, Dick, are two different things.”
“They’ll manage, sir.”
“None of those damn sanitary pads, mind,” Freeman said. “Take up too much space. Tampax or they don’t go!”
“Yes, sir.”
For a moment Freeman was silent, thinking of his wife— killed on his leave a few months before by a prowler who, as it turned out later, had been a Spetsnaz — a Special Forces — hit man when Siberia had been fighting Second Army. And now it was the Chinese he was up against. He turned his mind back to the pressing matter of tank transporters. Were there enough for the new up-gunned Abrams 12mm main battle tanks?
“All we need is ten days, General,” Norton informed him, as if reading Freeman’s mind. “By then our replacement armor’ll all be down here at Orgon Tal and spread out east of us. SAS and Delta teams’ll be rested by then, too.”
“Well, the truce should last that long. What have we had in the way of border incidents-apart from this explosion the SAS team is investigating?”
“Intelligence reports it’s tense — odd shot fired here and there. Maybe Chinese killing takin.” He meant the species of goat antelope that wandered the Manchurian slopes to the north. “But I still think the truce will hold for another few days.”
There was another reason for what the boys had done near Tomortei. They wanted to disrupt Cheng’s supply line all right, but they also wanted to send a clear signal to
The FAV — fast-attack vehicle or “dune buggy”—with Aussie Lewis driving, David Brentwood on the.50 machine gun to his right, and Choir Williams mounting the TOW antitank launcher behind them on the elevated seat, had reported that the sabotage seemed to be nothing more than a single line break. It would take Cheng’s forces a matter of hours to fix it, but then it would be open for rail traffic again. Freeman made calls up and down the line wanting SITREP, but except for the explosion on the Orgon Tal line, everything seemed quiet, the tension notwithstanding.
“Thank God for that,” Freeman said, thwacking his right leg again with the birch stick before using it as a pointer on the map. “Because, Norton, if that fox Cheng hits us anytime before the ten days are up, we are up the proverbial creek without a paddle.”
“Well, sir,” Norton said hopefully, “the weather’s closing in.”
Freeman turned about. “Who told you that? Harvey Simmet?”
“No, CNN.”
“Hmm — I ever tell you about that survey they did in England of all those weather wrap-ups on TV?”
“No, sir.”
“Well they found out hardly anyone who listens to weather forecasts can remember anything that was said five minutes later. All those damn isobars, arrows, convection currents, jet streams flying about complicate it to hell. Best weather report came from a TV channel that had no graphics, ho gimmicky electronics, just someone telling the audience that tomorrow it will be wet and windy.”
“I guess you’re right, General. I’m usually too busy watching the presenter.”
“So am I,” Freeman confided.
“Yes, sir.”
“Still,” Freeman responded, his tone more businesslike now, “I’d like an accurate reading on the weather within the last half hour. Get Harvey up here right away, will you?” The general turned back to the map of the three provinces, one of which lay directly ahead of him, the other two on his flanks.
Norton glanced at his watch. Seventeen hundred hours. Well, it was just starting to get dark at mealtime. He
