“Huh!” Freeman laughed. “Who? The PLA or Wash—” The word died on his lips, his right hand giving the stop signal. He smiled at Cline, then turned to Boyd. “Thank them on my behalf, Captain. Much appreciated.”
“Yes, sir.”
Freeman glanced over at Cline. “Is this century crazy or what? I’ve just been demoted for being politically insensitive — for telling the truth — and now Vietnam vets from our most unpopular war in history are telling me to hang tough and help the Vietnamese.”
“It’s the new world order, General.”
“Huh — in some ways I prefer the old. Least you knew what was what.” Freeman made his way back to the operations table, where Vinh’s staff were obviously impressed with the 3-D computer graphics of the terrain up north from the Red River valley and the high country about Lang Son, showing the last known disposition of Vinh’s army. But Freeman observed the graphics with a jaded edge. He knew how pretty it all looked, but he also knew that the computers were only as good as the information going into them, and right now the information had to be highly suspect, as Vinh’s forces and the advance elements of the U.S.-led U.N. force were fighting desperately to form a defensive line to somehow stop, or at the very least slow down, the PLA’s advance. And tactical air support from the carrier group was not yet possible because of heavy overcast curdling in from the Tonkin Gulf.
Even if the weather changed immediately, TAC support would have to be guided in to bomb pinpoint positions at night via infrared sighting, and at the moment all Vinh and Freeman knew was that their respective forces were in retreat. Until the situation stabilized, his airborne infantry and artillery now being deployed from Haiphong to Hanoi couldn’t be used effectively.
Most of Freeman’s staff, including Major Cline and Captain Boyd, were amazed by the general’s stoicism in view of what they, like many others, saw as a humiliating demotion, overall command being given to Jorgensen. But if Freeman appeared sanguine about his fate, it was in large part because he believed in destiny and knew that now he would be freer to do what he knew he was best at — fighting — directing and leading his men at the front. For Douglas Freeman, his demotion was to be seized upon as opportunity, and he thanked God for it.
CHAPTER FORTY
“ ‘Ello.” It was said with a distinct French accent followed by an offer of French champagne and two tulip- shaped glasses.
Marte Price had just finished using a gravity shower that a helpful Marine had erected outside her tent, and she was now drying off as the French reporter LaSalle poked his head farther into her tent. “Anyone ‘ome?”
Startled, not yet having dried herself, Marte stood draped in Army khaki towels. “What do you want?”
“Some company — yes?”
“No. Get out!”
LaSalle gave a shrug worthy of Maurice Chevalier. “But I cannot. The champagne, she is opened — how do you say? Ah yes, opened for business.”
“Well, I’m not,” Marte retorted. The Frenchman was handsome, no question about that, the archetype of the kind that women fell for — tall, lean, very physical in his movements, but with eyes sensitive to the slightest nuance. And he could see that she had seen the outline of his erection as he gazed at her sleek, long thighs before they got lost in towels.
“Very well,” he said accommodatingly. “I will leave the champagne for you and no offense. Okay?”
He reminded her of Hawkeye in the “M*A*S*H” TV show. “Look,” she said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. Maybe another time?”
It struck her that LaSalle could give her some general background for her stories — after all, it had been French Indochina till 1954.
LaSalle shrugged, smiling. “ ‘Ow about in ten minutes? The champagne will ‘ave lost some of its bubbles perhaps, but—”
“All right,” she said, “but let’s keep it strictly business.”
LaSalle spread his hands as if asking what other possible motive he could be thinking of.
When Pierre LaSalle returned, she was much more hospitable, and her khaki uniform, meant to hide any feminine aspects, had failed miserably by making the size of her bust a tantalizing guessing game.
The champagne was poured, the stream of tiny bubbles ascending like chains of golden pearls winking at the brim.
“Cheers,” she said, raising the glass.
‘To peace,” he responded, neither of them meaning it and each knowing the other had said it merely as a social nicety. They liked war — not being in it, but watching it, being close to it, being in less danger than the front- line fighter but close enough to smell it; to be scared and exhilarated by the rumble of the heavy guns, by the threat of it, the way it had of putting everything else into perspective, of showing just how thin the thread of life could be, of how you might as well enjoy yourself wherever and’ whenever you could.
“That was a good piece you did,” LaSalle said, complimenting her.
“Which piece was that?” Had he read any or was this just bullshit too?
“The one about the difficulties of commanding a U.N. force. It’s hard to do, I know. No pretty pictures, and the editor always want to show the viewers, eh? Not tell them. Explanation is much ‘arder.”
“Isn’t that the truth?” Marte said appreciatively. She was weighing it up, considering the possibilities. No way was she going to let him in her, even with a condom. He’d have one, of course. With his looks, he probably ordered them by the gross. But even a rubber, which most men hated anyway, wasn’t any guarantee against catching something like AIDS, hepatitis B, syphilis, gonorrhea, or any of a legion of subtropical and tropical sexually transmitted diseases.
“What do you think of Freeman’s demotion?” LaSalle asked.
Marte took another sip. “I think it was a blessing in disguise — for the U.N.”
“Oh? You think this Jorgensen will be much better, then?”
Marte shrugged. She wasn’t going to let the Frenchman slobber all over her either. You could catch stuff that way too. “I think,” she said, “it doesn’t matter a shit whether Jorgensen is here or not. He’ll be Washington’s man, a figurehead — press conferences. Freeman’ll do the actual work, only now he’ll be able to do it without Washington and Hanoi breathing down his neck.” Now Freeman, she thought, was a man you could get laid with and not worry. She didn’t know why, but she intuitively felt he’d be safe. With young Pierre here, however— what was the expression the EMREF boys on the plane had used? “Dipping your wick.” Well, young, or maybe not so young, he had probably dipped his at every stopover between here and Paree.
He was filling up her glass again and saying something now about some sensational photograph he’d heard she’d taken.
“Of what?” she wanted to know, figuring that as she’d been drinking her champagne, he’d been only sipping his. She could read him like a book — didn’t want to get too pissed, then the old wiener would just lie there.
“Some picture of Freeman I heard about — somewhere near the Lang Son road during the—” The Frenchman sneered. “—the so-called ‘friendly fire’ incident.”
“Huh,” she said, affecting puzzlement. “I took some shots of him giving orders — that kind of stuff.”
He lifted the bottle again.
“Uh-uh,” she said, shaking her head. “You’ll get me drunk.”
“Not at all,” he said, pouring more champagne anyway. “So,” he went on, as if that piece of business was over. “You do all your own developing?”
“No,” she answered just as easily. “I send all my film to Hanoi Kodak. That way anyone who wants to see what I’ve taken can have a peek. You know, sort of supermarket — take what you like.”
