‘The ice has broken, sir,’ Colonel Reed reported. Nate Clark and several other officers from various UNRUSFOR armies looked up. Reed lowered his eyes to the printout. ‘About thirty minutes ago we lost our first bridge. Within about twenty minutes after that we’d lost four others. We’ve now got reconnaissance both on the ground and in the air indicating that the ice is moving downstream at a rate roughly equivalent to the rate of flow of the water.’
‘Just like that?’ Nate asked in amazement. It was an event they’d all anticipated for so long, but it had happened so suddenly and without warning. Everyone’s eyes were trained on him. He snapped out of his reverie. ‘I want a report of exactly what we’ve got across. Every unit, every vehicle, what their stores are, where they are, where they’re headed, what they’re facing. I’m calling a full UNRUSFOR Joint Staff Meeting for,’ he looked at his watch, ‘sixteen hundred local.’
He rose, as did all those gathered around. ‘We’ve got work to do, gentlemen. Let’s get at it.’
The truck groaned and squealed and stopped. Stempel was glad for the end to the bumpy ride. It beat the hell out of a road march. But it took willpower of a different sort to remain seated on that bench. The engine was shut off. They heard the noisy crowd.
The truck’s canvas flap was thrown open. Bright daylight poured in. They were on a dusty, empty street lined by two-storey buildings. They appeared to be in a medium-to-large city.
‘Everybody out!’ the platoon sergeant barked. ‘Leave your loads in the truck! Bring yer tear gas and gas masks!’
Stempel and his squadmates exchanged glances. They climbed down with their rifles and the large green cans of CS. They now wore only field jackets and BDUs — mottled green and brown woodland camouflage. Some sort of disturbance raged down the street.
‘Form up!’ the platoon sergeant bellowed.
‘What?’ Patterson whined in a high-pitched voice.
‘You heard the man!’ their squad leader shouted. ‘First squad, fall in!’
The incredulous men formed ranks as if on a parade ground. Stempel’s squad was in the front rank. Second and Third Squads were behind them. Their entire company was forming up platoon-by-platoon. ‘Ten-hut!’ the platoon sergeant commanded. ‘Dress… right!’ Their drill was far less than boot-camp crisp. They held their left arms out to space themselves evenly. Their eyes roamed the windows of the surrounding buildings. ‘What ya lookin’ at, Patterson?’
‘Private Chavez, sarge!’
‘Cut the shit!’ When they were properly formed, the lieutenant began a formal inspection. The street was filled with shouted commands. But Harold strained to decipher the meaning of the more distant din of massed people. The platoon leader came up to Patterson. ‘Where’s your bayonet?’
‘Shit, I dunno, LT. In my pack, I guess.’
‘Go get it.’ Patterson took off for the back of the truck. The lieutenant made a cursory check of Harold and moved on. When the inspection was over, their company moved off down the street. Close-order drill commands were barked. ‘Right… face! Forward… march!’ No one called cadence, so they looked sloppy. When they rounded a corner, they came face to face with a single Bradley armored fighting vehicle. A thin line of MPs wearing gas masks extended to either side.
Facing them was a sea of Chinese civilians. They shouted and pleaded and gestured angrily.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Patterson said.
‘Shut up!’ their squad leader snapped from the head of their rank. The platoons were maneuvered until they were all three abreast. They stretched from sidewalk to sidewalk. They packed in tight. Three ranks deep. Stempel was in the front thirty meters behind the thin line of MPs.
‘Get those masks on!’ the company commander shouted to the hundred soldiers. The order was echoed by the platoon leaders, who roamed the street in front of the first rank.
‘I can’t believe this shit.’
‘Patterson!’ the platoon leader snapped. ‘If I hear another Goddamn word outa you…!’
‘I didn’t say nothin’, LT!’ Patterson interrupted.
It had been Chavez. Everybody stole looks at the taciturn guy from LA. He almost never said anything to anybody. Harold took his helmet off and put the mask on. He sucked down on the rubber and sealed the mask tight. He returned the helmet to his head and looked out through the flat plastic lenses. Everything already seemed unreal. The mask only made it more so.
The company commander raised his gas mask. ‘Mount… bayonets!’ he shouted. Harold could hear the grumbling and questioning all around. He fumbled with his scabbard. It took him a long time to seat the bayonet at the end of his rifle. ‘Port!’ came his next preparatory command, ‘arms!’ Harold brought the M-16 up to port arms.
There they stood. Instead of the ten-meter spread of late Twentieth Century warfare, they stood shoulder-to-shoulder like in the Eighteenth. A few feet in front of each platoon stood the platoon leaders. The platoon sergeants stood at their sides. At the center a few feet further was the company commander and his attendant — the radio-telephone operator. There had been no radio in the Eighteenth Century. None was needed in the current engagement. The captain simply turned, lifted his mask, and shouted. ‘Company-y-y…!’
The lieutenants echoed, ‘Platoon!’
‘Forward… march’!
Half the men heard the command and stepped off. The other half advanced just to stay in formation. They halted just behind the Bradley. The semi-organized mob of soldiers now faced the totally disorganized civilians. The officers and senior NCOs pulled their tear gas cans out and held them high. Some of the Chinese turned and left. Gaps began to appear in what had been a solid mass. Others shook their fists. Waved official documents of some sort. Hoisted banners across which were scrawled Chinese characters.
An MP shouted something in Chinese through a bullhorn. He repeated it over and over. The last few times he checked with a major who stood at his side before continuing. The major finally called a halt to the effort. He had a word with their company commander. The lieutenants were then summoned for an impromptu meeting.
Harold’s platoon leader returned. ‘Front ranks listen up! Every other man shoulder your weapon!’ Harold’s squad leader counted them off. He pointed at Harold, who slung his rifle over his shoulder. ‘Men with weapons in hand assume riot stance!’ The LT demonstrated with his own rifle. He leveled the weapon. The black bayonet led the way. ‘Jab with each step forward! You men with your weapons sling spray gas! Aim at their faces! Rear ranks’ he shouted at the top of his lungs, ‘lock ’n load!’ Magazines were audibly seated behind First Squad.
‘Jesus!’ Patterson exclaimed. ‘Whatta those people want?’
The platoon leader spun on him. ‘How the fuck should I know? Our orders are to clear this street! So shut the fuck up!’
The dissent from that point on was quiet. ‘This sucks!’ someone said. ‘This really sucks!’ The sentiment was repeated throughout the ranks. The officers and NCOs still positioned themselves in front. But they pulled back till they were nearly flush. Harold found the button on the top of his spray can. The green metal was replete with scary warnings about which way to point the nozzle. He held his rifle sling to his shoulder with his left hand. In his right he held what looked like insecticide. ‘Forward… march?
They began their advance taking baby steps. It was what they’d been taught in one brief drill back in boot camp. In the front rank bayonets were jabbed vigorously at the crowd. With each footfall came a stylized lunge. It was meant to clear the front by intimidation. The pace was slow and deliberate by design. But to Harold — carrying his can — it seemed slow. More reluctance than well-ordered drill.