‘We’ve been in contact in the air but not on the ground,’ Dekker said.
An Air Force general spoke up. ‘We’ve been knocking down MiGs and Tupelovs for hours. Most of our intercepts are well inside Russian airspace.’
Gordon filled his lungs. The process was painful. ‘Have we warned the Chinese to get out?’ he managed.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Horton Cates — Marshall’s acting Secretary of State. ‘They claimed to have warned former Secretary Jensen what would happen if western troops didn’t clear out.’
‘I’d like to talk to Jensen,’ Gordon requested.
Cates looked at Hartwig, then down at Gordon. ‘Hugh Jensen was found dead this morning, Mr President.’
Gordon sighed with a hiss. ‘Terr’rists?’
Cates shook his head. ‘Shot himself… after news of the border crossings.’
The extent of the tragedy took shape. Gordon looked back at the map. He struggled to keep his eyes open. He tried but abandoned the effort to draw another deep breath. ‘All right,’ he said. His voice was weak. Each syllable sounded like his last utterance. He looked at Dekker. ‘What do we do?’
Dekker cleared his throat and shifted his weight. ‘Well, sir, that’s not really… It’s a call that’s over my pay grade, sir.’
‘You’re still Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, right?’ Gordon asked.
‘Well, yes, sir. But whether to pull out or go to war is a purely political question, sir.’
‘Wait,’ Gordon croaked. He coughed. Pain wracked him. He had to breathe. In. Out. He slowly regained the strength to speak. ‘I’m not asking you…’ he continued in a raspy voice, ‘whether we go to war.’ He was swimming over great swells of agony. With each dizzying fall his head swam. Tm asking how we stop the Chinese?’ He closed his eyes to listen. He opened them every so often to look at a map. To let them know he was still paying attention to their plans.
Harold Stempel descended the stairs to the tarmac. He stared at the masses of soldiers dressed in white. There had to be thousands of them in ranks and files. They were loading onto a hodgepodge of dark green military transports and brightly painted civilian airliners.
‘Aloha,’ said a woman in a grass skirt at the bottom of the steps. She hung a lei around Harold’s neck and kissed both his cheeks. He smiled at the pretty woman with long straight hair and olive skin. ‘Aloha,’ she said to the paunchy man behind Harold. She kissed his cheeks as well.
‘Pardon me,’ Harold said. She seemed surprised he was still there. ‘But who are they?’ Harold asked — pointing at the troops.
She looked over her bare shoulder. ‘They’re soldiers. Been here all day. Aloha,’ she said, smiling to the next passenger;
Harold headed toward the uniformed men out of curiosity. It felt good to walk. To unlimber his tight muscles after so many hours of travel. The cruise ship had docked in San Juan. He’d then spent hours in the airport with his parents. They’d said their goodbyes and he had flown to Orlando. From there to L.A., then on to Hawaii. He had slept on each of the flights and was only just now waking up.
Two MPs slouched next to their Humvee. They noticed his approach, but were uninterested.
‘Pardon me,’ Harold said.
With a bored look one said, ‘Yeah?’
‘Sorry to bother you, but what unit is this?’
They both turned his way. Both wore sidearms. ‘Who the hell’re you?’
Harold stiffened. ‘Stempel, Harold, Private, U.S. Army, serial number…’
‘He me-eans’ the other man said, ‘who the fuck do you think you are, askin’ military secrets, fuckhead?’
‘I… I’m headed for the 25th. I thought, maybe, you know.’
‘Lemme see yer orders.’
Stempel rummaged through his bag. They looked over the orders, then handed them back. They ushered Stempel into the staging area of the 25th Infantry Division (Light).
‘You have a will?’ the woman asked without looking up from her table.
‘No, staff sergeant.’
Name. Name of beneficiaries. Stempel signed. ‘Over there,’ she said. She jerked her thumb over- her shoulder.
A man wore a lab coat with camouflaged fatigues underneath. He held what looked like a staple gun from which a long hose protruded. He lifted Stempel’s left sleeve and dabbed some cold alcohol on his arm. ‘I already had my shots. I just got out of basic…’
With a hiss of air Stempel felt the sting. The man repeated the process three more times with three different injectors, never saying a word. It was over in seconds. When Stempel picked up his carry-on, he had to switch it to the right arm because of the pain.
‘Name and serial number,’ a man asked at another table. Stempel answered. Everybody seemed tired. The hangar was nearly empty. But there were row after row of tables. ‘You’re done. Head out.’ He pointed at the lone plane that sat on the tarmac. A short line of soldiers ascended the stairs.
‘What about my bags? They’re still in baggage claim.’
The man seemed pissed. But he got Harold’s flight number and baggage claim checks. ‘Hurry up, man! Your plane’s leaving.’
Stempel ran across the concrete. The contents of his carry-on jangled noisily. The door of the plane was being closed. The engines started up. A man began to pull the stairs away. ‘Hey!’ Stempel yelled — waving. He had to bang on the airliner’s door. It opened. He was in.
The lavatory on the airliner was tiny. Harold barely got the door closed. He held an armload of gear scavenged off other soldiers. He couldn’t believe it. He just couldn’t believe it. He dropped everything and sat on the commode. He grabbed his head. The bristles folded first one way, then the other as he ran his palms across his scalp.
Yesterday, he was having a rum swizzle with his parents at a shipboard bar — ignoring them while eyeing the girl in the pink bikini by the pool. Today, he was on a plane headed for war in Siberia. He’d asked every man he’d spoken with what was happening. The privates and PFCs had just shrugged.
‘Oh, ma-an,’ Harold moaned. He rocked forward and clamped hie hands between his knees. He tried to control his breathing.
I’m ready for this, he told himself over and over. I made it. I’m a soldier now just like everybody else on this plane.
He decided to put on his uniform. Maybe if he got out of his jeans and into a uniform like all the others he’d settle down. It was a chore in the tight quarters. He stripped down to his jockey shorts and T-shirt. Printed on the shirt was the torso of a bronzed bodybuilder. Harold’s head stuck out at the top. Around his neck was his plastic lei.
He began to shiver. The men were in winter battle dress so the cabin was kept chilly. Harold shoved the lei into the first pocket he found in the pile of clothing. He hurried into the loose, oversized long-johns and single pair of cushion-sole socks. Then, he donned mottled green-and-brown camouflage BDUs. Next, he found the white winter-combat boots. They were insulated, rubber-lined and waterproof. He put them on and bloused his trousers over them. A woodland camo field jacket with its liner zipped in place completed the standard battle dress.
From there he had to follow the platoon sergeant’s instructions. Scissors-type braces over the field jacket. Baggy wool trousers hooked to braces. Loose wool shirt over everything. It was all a size too large. But the sergeant had told him to expect that. Something about circulation. Stempel climbed into the Arctic white nylon shell. He found the hole in the large cargo pockets on the thighs. In it was tape, which he tied around his thigh. ‘Prevents the material from rubbing and making noise,’ he’d been told. He pulled the shell’s drawstring tight around his boots and slipped into the white Arctic overshoes. The solid white parka came next. There was a drawstring at his waist. Its tail was split. He tied each side separately around his thighs. He put on his cold-weather cap. His white, cloth-covered helmet went on over it. The parka’s hood fit over the helmet. He pulled a drawstring, leaving only his face exposed. At the edge of the hood was a fur ruff, and inside it there was a pliable wire that he bent so the fur covered his face.