Daryl hit line two. ‘Jim!’ Gordon said in a fake but vibrant voice.
‘No,’ came the reply of a small child. ‘My daddy had to go to the potty! His tummy has germs in it ’cause he didn’t wash his hands.’
Gordon smiled and said, ‘Well, listen, sweetie. I’m the President of the United States. Do you know who that is?’
‘Uh-hu-u-uh! I saw you on TV. You’re the fool!’
Gordon sighed. ‘Yep. That’s me. And let me ask you one other question. Do you know the soldiers who are fighting in the war?’
‘Ye-ah. They wear white clothes, and it’s cold.’
‘That’s right! Now I’d like you to do me a favor, okay? I’d like you to tell your daddy he shouldn’t be mean to the cold soldiers. Tell him he shouldn’t take away their food and warm blankets and…’ Elaine slapped Gordon hard on the shoulder. She chastised him sternly under her breath. ‘You just go stand outside the potty door and explain that to your dad.’ The little girl accepted her mission with an ‘O-kay!’
‘Bill Craft on line 4,’ Daryl said the instant the girl hung up.
‘Bill! This is Gordon Davis.’ Senator Craft launched into a two-minute anti-war diatribe.
‘Okay,’ Gordon finally said, ‘I’ve listened to you. Now will you listen to me?’
‘Gordy, it won’t do you any good. I’m one of the Goddamn sponsors of the War Powers Resolution.’
‘Just give me my shot, Bill, that’s all I ask. Just let me make my case.’
Senator Craft huffed, but then he replied, ‘Of course, Mr President.’
Gordon leaned back in the padded chair behind the historic desk. It was quiet now. The Oval Office was nearly empty. ‘Get General Clark on the line,’ he said. He slurred the words and didn’t look at anyone in particular. He took deep breaths. His eyes sank closed.
An aide handed him the phone. ‘Nate?’ he said. His voice was tired and raspy. ‘You’ve got thirty days of funding. The continuing resolution passed. Now you go win that war.’
Harold Stempel and the others waited on the riverbank. The newly-plowed road that ran to the edge of the Amur River was already rutted. Their legs and backs ached from the weight of the heavy packs that they carried. But they couldn’t sit down or they’d never get back up.
Engineers were stringing additional cables to secure the pontoons. The floating bridge looked all right. But every so often the thin ice would shift. The groaning sound of friction would draw anxious looks from the engineers. A man on the center of the bridge shouted, twirled his arm, and pumped his fist in the air.
‘All right, let’s go!’ shouted Stempel’s platoon leader.
They headed across the bridge in two files — one down each solid metal track meant for vehicles. The lieutenant was in front. His RTO followed with his radio aerial whipping the air. Then came Stempel’s squad leader, then Stempel — fourth in line. The men on the opposite side of the bridge followed the platoon sergeant. A quick check of the upstream ice left Harold distinctly unsettled.
From the riverbank the ice looked fairly solid. But from the bridge it was clearly thin and dangerous. Here and there, the ice cover grew thinner and darker in the bright light of the sunny day. It was broken straight through around the gently bobbing pontoons. The water there was black and ominous and foreboding.
They passed a group of the engineers who were struggling to fasten cables to the bridge. Straining to keep the bridge intact. Harold wanted to quicken his pace, but had to maintain his place in line.
There was another loud groan from the river. Everyone’s heads turned in search of the ominous sound. But nothing had visibly changed. The long highway of gray ice remained unbroken. Harold felt a trickle of sweat under the warm rays of the sun.
Several times he felt the bridge sway beneath him. Not a jarring blow. Just a gentle drift with the current. He peered out around the bulging pack of his squad leader. The bridge was bowed to the left. Long guy wires from the banks held the pontoons in place. But the bridge still bent to the relentless flow.
When Harold stepped off the metal pad onto dry land he breathed a sigh of relief.
‘I never thought I’d get to China,’ McAndrews said.
Harold looked down at his boots. At the icy ruts made by a hundred vehicles’ passing.
‘What’s this?’ Patterson asked. He took a can. It looked like oversized hairspray.
‘Tear gas,’ the squad leader said. He handed one to each man. Harold took the cold green can. Chavez followed with gas masks in canvas sacks.
‘What this for?’ an incredulous Patterson persisted. The sergeant looked pissed. He didn’t have the patience to put up with Patterson’s shit. But Patterson kept at him. ‘Why are they issuing us this shit?’
The sergeant wheeled on him. ‘You know how many people there are in China, shitface? A billion and a half! Figure it out for yourself!’
The Blackhawk bucked wildly through the heavy turbulence. Andre Faulk felt sick to his stomach. It had been hours since they’d refueled and headed in. This was the longest flight he’d ever taken in a helicopter. The weight of the external fuel tanks had forced removal of the armored flooring. After reaching the border everyone had sat on their packs. Andre’s back and ass ached.
But it wasn’t the threat of anti-aircraft fire or the lack of comfort that caused Andre’s greatest distress. The entire battalion had flown straight into a raging cold front. They were being tossed about like a small boat on rough seas. The buffeting was so violent in the mountains it almost knocked his breath out. Several in his squad had already vomited into airsick bags. Andre had been on the verge of doing the same numerous times. He’d stopped just short, however — his mouth and nose breathing the stale air of a bag.
‘Thirty miles!’ the squad leader shouted after getting off the intercom. ‘We’re thirty miles out!’
He looked sick to his stomach, and he started to buck and buck. He spilled his stomach all over the center of the cabin.
They all listened for the smacking sound of bullets on the metal fuselage. No one said a word as the engines revved to military power. The deceleration of their descent toward the earth crushed everyone to the deck.
There was a jerking thud. The door cracked open. In rushed the rotors’ downblast. The door slid wide. The cabin filled with swirling, frigid wind. The sergeant leapt through the door. One by one the blackness outside swallowed men. Andre slid on his butt toward the opening. The weight of his pack prevented him from rising. By the time his legs dangled in the air under the whirring blades, the first men were returning to offload crates of supplies.
‘Move it!’ came a shout — almost totally washed away by the engines’ roar. Andre hopped to the ground — misjudging the distance and collapsing to his knees. Two of the returning men hoisted him to his feet. He lumbered into the night across uneven footing. The LZ was filled with dozens of choppers.
The sarge shoved Andre in the right direction. He found the other men’s gear piled. With a quick motion he released his heavy pack. It fell to the ground with a jangling thud.