‘A new kidney. Maybe a new hip.’
‘I mean painkillers. Do you want me to get you some?’
‘Can’t’ He took a deep breath and winced. Gordon didn’t waste words any more. He only had about an hour per day of alertness. The rest of the time, he was either asleep or adrift in a sea of nausea and pain through which he wished he could sleep. Any more painkillers and he wouldn’t be alert enough to listen to the five-minute updates on the war. The reports were almost universally bad. But they were so couched in bureaucratese that Gordon could only guess how bad the situation really was. And he was too weak to ask pointed questions, or to press for a more complete briefing. ‘Got an NSC meeting,’ he said. ‘Then Congressional leadership.’
‘I know. I saw them all gathered out in the hall — arguing.’
‘About what?’
Her gaze dropped. ‘This war, Gordon. It’s awful.’
‘All wars are awful!’
She immediately placed her hand on his chest. ‘I know, Gordon. I know. It’s just… why this war? Why are we there? Don’t you think maybe we bit off a little more than we can chew?’
‘ “We” who?’ he croaked
Elaine reached for the cup and gave him a drink. ‘I mean America,’ she said softly. ‘Honey, those early reports sound terrible. Three thousand dead — most of those Americans. And the numbers of Chinese killed…! Can that be right? Forty-five thousand in just four days?’
Gordon lay back. There was so much he wanted to say. Impassioned arguments he wanted to make. The Europeans were committing their troops. They would provide half the manpower. But America was the glue that held the coalition together. Gordon’s resolve was its most crucial manifestation. America had been leader of the free world since World War II. Was it ready to slough off that mantle because the burden had grown too great? To allow the balance of world power to shift to China? Totalitarian rule to dominate the Asian land mass? The future was being decided.
But the most compelling reason for war was completely unrelated to geopolitics. It was simple, to Gordon. To capitulate in the face of naked aggression would be humiliation. Not just for Gordon. He could beg for a cease-fire, get everyone out, then tender his resignation for reasons of health. His footnote in the history books would be kind. But he’d leave his countrymen utterly defeated. That would deal a blow to their self-image. Their self-respect. It would mar the psyche of a generation. The so-called ‘Vietnam Syndrome’ would be nothing compared to what would follow. It would mean isolationism instead of leadership. It would mean the end of the ‘American Century,’ and the beginning of the Chinese one.
Character, he thought. The nation would lose some element of its character. And it was character that had made America great. It was the engine of the most powerful country in history. It had been forged in the crucible of war. It could be shattered by a cowardly retreat. War carried a terrible price. But Gordon was not willing to allow his weakness to put at risk his country’s greatest asset.
Gordon had all those thoughts. But all he had the strength to say to Elaine was, ‘We’ll win.’ His head felt light. She came into and out of focus… talking. Soothing.
‘The tree of liberty…’ he remembered.
‘What?’ Elaine asked.
He’d read it once. The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. Thomas Jefferson…
‘Mr President,’ said the minority leader of the Senate. Gordon opened his eyes. How long had he been asleep? He was in the middle of a meeting. ‘There’s going to be a resolution on the floor of the House to cut off funding for the war at ninety days.’ He paused to let Gordon digest the terrible news.
‘Will it carry the Senate?’ Gordon asked.
His former colleague shrugged. It was a gesture of defeat. ‘Gordon, I’m gonna just lay it out for you, okay?’ Gordon nodded. ‘Nobody wants this war. Nobody. Not in Europe. Not on the Hill. Not even in your own Administration. Ninety percent of the American people oppose it. This is shaping up to be the most unpopular war in our country’s history — the Civil War included. Everybody on the Hill is getting bombarded with faxes and letters and calls and e-mails.’
‘That’s not the people.’
The Senator smiled. ‘No. You’re right. But I guess you haven’t been reading the papers, either.’
‘Can’t hold ’em up,’ Gordon croaked.
‘Well, according to the front page of the New York Times, there are over two thousand AWOLs reported. And the number may be going way, way up. And there have already been the first demonstrations.’
‘So you’re pulling the rug out from under me?’ Gordon asked. He turned to the leadership. They were clearly uncomfortable.
‘I’m sorry, Gordon,’ the Speaker of the House said finally. ‘The measure will pass. You’ve got three months to bring our people home.’
They waited, but Gordon said nothing. He couldn’t. He was too angry. Too busy planning. When the room was cleared of all but a sheepish Fein, Gordon knew what he was going to do. He gave Fein his orders.
‘Get me Daryl Shavers.’
The winter sun had yet to rise into the misty sky. But flames lit the breach in the lines they’d just closed. Reed and Clark stood staring as the already frozen Chinese bodies were stacked like cord wood. ‘They completely shattered the single platoon manning the perimeter,’ the dazed Reed said. ‘They broke clean through. They had open field running ahead of ’em.’ He shook his head ‘But they stopped here.’
Men were pulling bodies out of the tattered rags of the mess tent. Huge, gleaming pots still steamed where the starving Chinese had stopped to fill their stomachs after overrunning a battalion field kitchen. Major Reed’s provisionals had counterattacked — pouring fire and grenades onto the absurdly exposed Chinese. Over a hundred Chinese soldiers — crammed inside the mess tent — died amid the pots and pans. Some were covered in now frozen soup. All had removed their gloves to gobble down the hot food.
Clark’s radio crackled. His radioman announced that another Chinese attack was coming. Clark asked where, then tensely awaited the radioman’s reply. ‘Southern perimeter,’ the man repeated as he listened to the radio. ‘In the gap between the U.S. and Belgian positions.’ A wave of relief washed over Clark.
It was just where and when he’d expected. He ordered the pre-arranged call to go out to the air commander. Pilots sitting in their jets on the runways of Khabarovsk a hundred and ten miles away would be there in ten minutes on afterburners. Plenty of time to form up for the attack.
Before departing, he shook hands with Reed. ‘Good job,’ Clark said tersely.
Reed held Clark’s gloved hand. The major looked back at Clark through puffy, bloodshot eyes. The two men were surrounded with growing mounds of the dead. Twisted, contorted, grossly disfigured. Men Reed had ordered slaughtered as they desperately filled their starving bellies.
‘You did what you were supposed to do, Major.’ Reed opened his mouth to speak. Clark squeezed his hand tight. Not now, Clark thought. Don’t start asking the questions. ‘You did what you were supposed to do, Major,’ Clark repeated. ‘Now get your provisionals ready for another counterattack.’
Clark headed for the perimeter.
The Chinese were going for the lone rise on the base to the south of the airfield. Clark had dug in a half-dozen .50 calibers near the crest. The heavy machine-guns were awesomely destructive. They had devastated the light probes they’d sent in the night for the sole purpose of mapping the positions of the guns. Now, they’d come back to root the weapons out. The fire support plan was ready. All forty-eight tubes — too close to be brought to bear on the battlefield — would begin firing at extreme elevations onto the immediate rear of the attacking Chinese. But the support on which Clark pinned his hopes would be orbiting above the clouds — unbeknownst to the Chinese — with wing pylons heavily laden with high explosives. Clark stopped to look at his watch. All forty fighter-bombers should be on station in fifteen minutes.