At a dozen meters from contact, most of the civilians had already turned and fled. A solid wall had been reduced to a small group. They dotted the debris-strewn street. Those who remained were either defiant or desperate. Most were seething with anger. Over what, Harold had absolutely no idea. They didn’t seem to confront the Americans like enemies. More like an odd assembly of various protesters and petitioners.
‘Grunt!’ the officers turned and ordered. From the ranks arose a muffled but still sonorous noise. ‘Huh? chanted over and over. Synchronized motion and sound feeding each other. Step forward — jab and grunt. Step forward — jab and grunt. The two rear ranks jabbed at air with loaded weapons. It organized the entire formation. They were in step. They were one. They were all braced to sink steel into flesh.
Everyone, that was, but the can holders. Patterson, Harold, and of all people Chavez. Harold felt like he was swept forward by the formation. Pushed along by the blade of a bulldozer. His head darted left and right. He tried to grunt with the others. But he gave up because it didn’t seem natural without the bayonet. He felt like a bystander instead of a participant in the clash.
The officers sprayed their cans first. The tight squirts of gas jetted across the divide into the crowd. Everyone in the vicinity flinched and recoiled from the awful gas. Harold shook his can and scanned the ‘battlefield’ for a target. A man with a kerchief tied over his nose brandished a long stick. He boldly stood his ground Range six meters. Harold decided he’d try to save the brave man.
He aimed the can and pressed the button. He adjusted his aim till the spray hit the man’s eyes. The man screamed and dropped the stick to the ground. He fell to his knees and clawed and wiped at his eyes. He rolled to the paving stones in hyperactive agony. He writhed, and bucked, and yelped in pain. He scraped at the skin on his face. As his friends dragged him away he vomited. Harold sprayed mostly men, but some women. Mostly young, but some old. Mostly angry, but some plaintive. He had no idea what they were mad at. Or wanted. Or needed.
When it was over the street was filled only with trash. They made no arrests. All those who resisted were simply roughed up and sent away bleeding. They didn’t kill anyone, but they didn’t treat the injured. Harold couldn’t tell where everyone had gone. They simply disappeared behind closed doors and windows.
They rested on a side street after the fifteen-minute confrontation. The entire company looked exhausted. Heads were hung. No one talked. The air was thick with the smell of tear gas. Men spat to rid their mouths of the taste. And they listened. They listened as their commanding officer ranted and raved. First to the major who commanded on the scene. Then over the radio to battalion staff. Then right in the face of the battalion commander, whose Humvee pulled up to the scene.
An endless convoy rolled down the empty street. But you didn’t have to strain to hear the captain’s enraged shouts. Everyone agreed with the sentiments he expressed. Even the lieutenant colonel, judging from the man’s surprising patience. None of the men wanted to fight. They were all exhausted and ready to go home. But there was a war taking place and they were infantrymen.
Daryl Shavers was bubbling over with good cheer. Gordon Davis was concerned, but he didn’t know why. Elaine’s mood was somewhere between the two. Gordon wanted to know exactly where and why.
‘We’re gonna win, Gordon!’ Daryl said. ‘For the life of me I can’t see any downside in this.’ He tossed the single page on Gordon’s desk. ‘The Chinese are cracking. This is just their opening bid. Japan’s ambassador to Beijing said so himself.’
‘Are you considering accepting it?’ Elaine asked.
Gordon eyed her before he shook his head. ‘They’re basically just offering a ceasefire. We’ve come too far to settle for that.’
Daryl was grinning. ‘Hell, if Clark’s plan works and those two prongs hook up, we just do our thing and leave.’ Gordon nodded slowly. Frowning. ‘What, Gordon? What’s gotten into you? Things couldn’t have worked out any better.’
‘I know. I know.’ Gordon looked at Elaine. ‘I don’t know what it is.’
‘Maybe you’re just a little blue,’ she suggested. ‘I mean, now that it’s coming to an end. You know. Maybe everything’s finally catching up with you. You remember what the doctor said. About people who suffer serious traumas.’
‘Maybe,’ was all Gordon could manage. He was depressed. But he didn’t think that was it. It was something. Some risk. Some danger. He couldn’t put his finger on it. He looked up at Daryl. ‘I’ll tell State not to answer. Let ’em stew for a few days while we press on to that valley. But you talk to the people at the Pentagon yourself. I want plans ready to withdraw those troops from China on a moment’s notice.’ Gordon felt another wave of concern. It baffled him.
PART V
‘Power over one’s fellow man is the root of all human activity. For what better way to control one’s destiny than to bend others to your plans and your will? The urge to amass that power is both irresistible and subliminal. Whether that power is gained by wealth, by beauty, by office, by the muzzle of a gun, or by the moral suasion of one’s ideas, its accumulation is the end, in and of itself, of every human alive.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘Miller?’ the squad leader said.
‘Three full mags. Eight rounds in my fourth.’
‘Fifty-three rounds,’ the squad leader mumbled as he wrote. ‘Faulk?’
‘Two full plus eleven,’ Andre answered.
‘M-m-mph,’ the sergeant said, shaking his head and writing. ‘Squeeze ’em off, Faulk. Make ’em count.’
Andre nodded in the darkness. He picked at his MRE — chicken teriyaki and asparagus spears. A spasm of gunfire erupted from the south, but no one bothered even to look. The firefights were as regular as clockwork — every ten or fifteen minutes. The sound of fighting rose this time, however, until it was clear that a major attack was under way. Without being told, the eight remaining men of Andre’s squad began to gather their gear.
The call came two minutes later.
‘Let’s move out!’ the new platoon sergeant barked. Everyone rose slowly to their feet. There were no groans as the men flexed their sore muscles. No words of complaint from Andre’s usually vocal squadmates. There was nothing but the clack of magazines. The metallic screech of a charging handle in need of oil. The snapping latch of grenade launchers being closed, locked and loaded. The resignation of the eight teenagers was oppressive.
They advanced through the thick woods in single file — the better to keep together in the darkness. Their lonely march was made in silence. It contrasted sharply with the thunderclap of Chinese artillery. Shells burst along the high ridges every few seconds. They lit the upper branches of the trees like bolts of lightning. Each explosion drew skyward glances from the frightened soldiers. The sporadic fire from the Chinese guns was new. But Andre knew the big guns’ absence wasn’t an accident. With fighter-bombers patrolling the skies night and day, the life expectancy of artillery crews had to be short.