‘What about the defense infrastructure in that part of Siberia?’ Clark asked.
Reed’s briefing seamlessly transitioned. ‘During the peak tensions between the Soviets and Chinese in the late 1960s, the Russians built a series of “voenny gorodoks” all along the border. They’re self-contained military bases complete with concrete bunkers, hardened radar sites, et cetera. Most have fallen into disrepair, but we plan to improve and man them during the second stage of our deployment in December.’
‘But aren’t those bases arrayed in such a way as to refuse the Chinese border?’ Clark asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ Clark’s J-3 replied. ‘The Russian Strategic Rocket Forces dispersed their missile silos in rights-of-way all along the Trans-Siberian Railroad. The International Atomic Energy Commission people are gonna need security to go onto those missile bases and secure the warheads. The voenny gorodoks are spaced very conveniently along the railway.’
‘I understand, but what’s this going to look like to the Chinese?’ Clark asked. No one had an answer. He motioned for Reed to continue.
‘The Trans-Siberian Railway is the other principal geographic feature in theater. The southern branch hugs the border. The northern branch runs from the port of Vanin through the military industrial complex in Komsomolsk-na-Amur to points west. Both are double-tracked for simultaneous east-west traffic. They’re Russian wide-gauge, so we’ll have to use local rolling stock. But rail is virtually the only means of ground transportation other than special-purpose military roads connecting the defense infrastructure.’
Reed faced Clark full on. ‘The importance of the Trans-Siberian Railway cannot be emphasized strongly enough. There are no roads connecting European Russia with the Far East. Whoever controls the Trans-Siberian Railway… controls Siberia. It’s as simple as that.’
Nate was quickly growing to appreciate Reed’s abilities as a briefer. He now viewed the slender rail lines running east and west across the large map of Eurasia in the appropriate perspective. Their importance and the myriad of problems incumbent in their defense assumed greater significance in his quiet thoughts. ‘Tell me a little more about the terrain,’ Nate said to the major.
Again, the pointer went to the map. ‘From Beijing to the Arctic Ocean, and from the Gobi Desert arid Mongolian steppe in the east to the Pacific ocean, the terrain is best described by the Russian word “taiga” — dense, virgin, evergreen forests covered in thick brush. The trees are primarily large oaks, cedars, pines, linden and birch. They’re typically overgrown with liana and wild grape or creeping brush and subbrush. Thickets with spines as long as fingers and sharp needles fill most of the spaces between trees. The topography is mostly rugged and broken north of the Amur. To the south of the Amur in Manchuria and between the Ussuri and the Pacific coast in the Russian Maritime Provinces major mountain chains run north and south. The mountains rise from foothills that are cut through with narrow, overgrown ravines formed by creeks that turn into muddy swamps in the short summers.’
‘How the hell does the local population get through all that with no roads?’ Clark asked.
‘There are roads all throughout Manchuria connecting villages to towns to cities…’ Reed began.
‘No,’ Clark interrupted. ‘I mean on the Russian side of the border.’
‘There are only a few small cities in Siberia,’ Reed replied, ‘and they’re connected by rail. Out in the boonies, there is no “local population” to speak of. Only a few huts used by trappers and hunters during the summer that are connected by narrow footpaths.’
Clark squinted to read the legend — studying the scale of the map. The distances were enormous. ‘Just what is the population in-theater?’
Reed turned back to the map, which was roughly evenly split by the Amur — China to the south and Russia to the north. ‘There are less than two million Russians in UNRUSFOR’s theater of operations. And that number is dropping rapidly because people are packing up and fleeing to the west.’
‘Straight into the civil war?’ Clark asked. Reed nodded. Fleeing what? Clark thought. His eyes drifted south across the Amur River. ‘What’s the population of northern China just across the border?’
Reed didn’t take his eyes off his boss. ‘Approximately one hundred million people, General Clark.’
‘And in conclusion,’ Gordon Davis read from the teleprompter, chopping his hand in the air for emphasis and counting to five silently, ‘let me say this to any Anarchists who think Americans are easily intimidated.’ The gathering of union workers listened quietly. ‘If you continue to sow your seeds of violence about this great and peace-loving nation, you will soon reap a bitter harvest from a just but mighty people!’
Yells and thunderous applause reverberated through the mammoth I.B.E.W. hall. A high school marching band struck up a very loud rendition of ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic.’ Gordon smiled, Elaine joined him and they both smiled. Everyone was on their feet. Even though Gordon knew it was all staged for the cameras, whose lenses roamed the podium and euphoric crowd, he couldn’t help but feel enthused.
His press had been good. He was cast as a compromise candidate — a healer of the nation’s many divisions. Allegations of tokenism on the Republican ticket were not as forceful or as frequent as he had feared. But part of the reason, he felt certain, was the preoccupation of the media with the continuing wave of assassinations.
As he and Elaine left the stage, a cordon of over two dozen Secret Service agents held back the throng. Gordon raised his hand again to wave, feeling the downward tug of the body armor underneath his dress shirt. Backstage, Fein rushed right up to him, taking his elbow and shouting over the noise, ‘Perfect timing! You hit it just right!’
Gordon felt pleased to have the man’s approval. Over and over Fein had proven his prowess. In the evenings after their grueling days of campaigning, Fein, Gordon and Daryl sat down to watch videotaped coverage of Gordon’s various appearances. They were spun by the media just as Fein had predicted they would be. Fein’s sound bites were served up as planned, and Gordon’s campaign looked just like all the others. That was comforting to Gordon. It was an appearance of professionalism in which,he took pride.
They headed out of the union hall through the kitchen. In the short distance from the exit to the limousine, a hundred reporters stood shouting questions from behind barricades.
‘Senator Davis!’ Gordon felt Fein’s hand on his elbow — guiding him toward the car. ‘Is it true, sir, that you smoked pot in college?’ The lenses of half a dozen TV cameras focused on him.
‘Yes, I did,’ Gordon replied calmly.
There was a pause before another reporter asked, ‘Did you inhale?’
Everyone broke out laughing at once. The hand gripping Gordon’s elbow fell away. ‘Next question,’ Gordon replied. Again there was laughter.
‘The Republican platform is very conservative,’ another reporter shouted, ‘but your voting record seems a bit mixed. Would you call yourself a liberal, or a conservative?’
‘Those are just labels,’ Gordon heard Fein mutter from behind him.
‘I hold conservative views on matters of national defense and the economy, and liberal views on certain social issues.’