‘Who the hell are you?’ the guy repeated.
‘The 25th!’
‘Who?
‘The 25th Light Infantry Division!’ Harold shouted. He then fired a long burst at the fleeing figures — chopping them down like dry weeds. The man next to Harold was lying with his face in the crook of his elbow. ‘Hey!’ Harold shouted. ‘Are you hit?’ He began to pat the man down for a wound. The guy raised his head. He was crying like a baby but he shook his head then lowered it again to his arms.
‘Everybody u-u-up!’ came the command. Harold rose. He raised his gun and marched forward — continuing the massacre of the fleeing Chinese army.
Gordon wasn’t really asleep. He was lying still in bed next to Elaine. He’d given up on any hope of drifting off. Pull out? Stay and keep the peace? He had to make a decision. The army had done its job. The nation had rallied around it. All is well, he thought. All is well.
But what if Kartsev was right? What if China collapsed into anarchy? Would the world build a wall around the country? Would they quarantine the violent ideology like a plague-ridden city in the Middle Ages? Confine the healthy with the sick in a desperate effort to stop the spread of the disease? Consign a quarter of the world’s population to funeral pyres and roving bands of cannibals?
Gordon shook his head at the nonsense. Elaine stirred but drifted back off. What the hell did Kartsev know, anyway?
Gordon thought. But his attempt at easing his mind with the question had exactly the opposite effect. Kartsev clearly knew something others didn’t. Something about man’s primitive nature.
In the dark room Gordon’s thoughts had no anchor. They were carried by the current toward nightmarish visions. What if anarchy spreads outward from China? India, Indochina, the Pacific Rim. Half the world’s population could be engulfed in madness. Charismatic psychopaths leading followers to violence like warlords with hypnotic power. Human misery on an apocalyptic scale. What would he do? What would he do?
Someone knocked lightly on the door. Gordon realized he must have fallen asleep. The dreams vanished. His mind cleared. He swung his feet to the floor. The motion was a little too rapid. It brought pain from the sites of his old wounds. The doctor had said the aches would always be with him. And that was good, Gordon thought as he wrapped his robe around himself. He’d just spent hours alone with his guilt. The emotional burden of sending thousands of men to their deaths. Of ordering armies to kill hundreds of thousands. He’d spent hours of doubting, questioning and rationalizing. Praying, chastising himself, crying. In the end all that was left were cleansing pains. The pains of absolution. And in the clarity of waking he made his decision. It was really the only thing he could do. And it was the right decision! That was all that really mattered. The only measure of himself that counted.
Gordon opened the bedroom door. ‘You’ve got a call from General Clark, sir,’ an aide said. He led Gordon down the hall to a phone. The White House Military Officer waited there with a smile, which tipped Gordon off. He could already feel the excitement of victory as he raised the receiver to his ear. ‘General Clark?’ he said.
‘Mr President!’ Clark said from a noisy room. ‘I’ve got wonderful news!’
Clark went on — his voice ecstatic. Gordon didn’t follow all the details. He got what he needed from the man’s tone. He took a breath so deep it felt like the first time since the war he’d filled his lungs. It’s the right thing to do, he told himself. He repeated it over and over.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
At first Andre hadn’t heard what number six said. Then he hadn’t believed it. Hours had passed before he first saw the two civilians. A long-haired freak and a beautiful woman roamed about the killing fields below. They were gathering Chinese rifles and ammunition belts — strapping them over their shoulders.
He stared intently at the petite woman as she returned with half a dozen Type 56-2 7.62-mm rifles. The long-haired guy yelled and had her put the rifles down. He flicked the safeties on one by one. The bitch had been carrying the rifles just as they’d been dropped when their owners died.
Andre decided the strange coincidence made sense. She was a war correspondent. He’d volunteered for airmobile. They’d both been sent into the deepest shit of the war. But what was truly remarkable, he thought, was that they’d both lived through the disaster. The great train wreck on a global scale. The collision had ground up bodies by the thousands. It had an appetite for healthy men and women. It took the youthful, chewed them up, and spat them out. Of all the countless bullets, he thought, how had none maimed or killed him? Some men like Hanson died in the first minutes of a fight. Others like Andre made it through more or less intact. And he had made it, he was near certain. The Chinese hadn’t come back in any strength for a while.
A few minutes after the reporters returned, the long-haired guy climbed down onto the ledge beside Andre. ‘There you are!’ he said. ‘Jeeze! They said you were over here, but I couldn’t find yer ass.’ He handed Andre a Type 56-2. ‘Magazine’s full, and here’s two others. If you run out, there’s plenty more.’ Andre waited, but the guy still didn’t recognize him. ‘Well… nice talkin’ to ya. I gotta go.’
When he turned to leave, Andre said, ‘Better check number six.’
‘Who?’ the cameraman asked.
Andre pointed. ‘The guy right over that rock.’
The man hesitated, then said, ‘Oh. He’s dead, man. He was lyin’ curled in a ball — really peaceful. I thought he was just sleepin’ but… There was a lotta blood.’ Andre just stared back at him. After an awkward silence, he moved on.
Andre had never felt so alone. He’d never laid eyes on number six, but the man had kept Andre company through the most important days of his life. He had been Andre’s only constant contact with another human being. But now, he was alone again. Just like always.
‘Stempel!’ the platoon sergeant shouted.
It took all the energy Harold could muster just to lift his head from his pack. They were rounding everyone up. The soldiers began to collect their gear in silence. Nobody bitched or moaned in front of the platoon sergeant, who talked for a moment to their squad leader. The buck sergeant turned to his squad and said, ‘Don’t need to bring your packs. McAndrews, you stay here and guard ’em.’ McAndrews lay back down with a smile on his face. ‘Guard ’em, McAndrews!’ the sarge yelled — his abused vocal cords barely eking out a sound.
‘He’ll be asleep in three minutes,’ Patterson said.
‘Two!’ someone else snapped — sounding angry.
‘Shut up and listen!’ the sergeant screeched. ‘We’re gonna go up that hill with First Squad,’ he said, pointing, ‘and help some guys at the top get down.’