Chin cast a nervous eye to the low and anemic sun. ‘Let’s start driving those tent pins!’ he ordered. ‘Where the ground’s frozen, look for natural anchors! Hurry up!’
In the near distance, more new replacements were completely stripping a tree of its branches for flooring and camouflage. Chin stormed over to them. ‘Don’t take all the branches! The enemy can see bare trees from the air! Take a few lower branches and move on to the next tree! There are millions of trees all around! They dropped their load and moved to comply. ‘Well, take those branches!’ They picked them up. ‘Which are upper branches, and which are lower branches?’ Chin asked. They clearly had no idea. ‘I told you this already! We burn upper branches before dark because their smoke is white! Lower branches have tar and resin! They burn better and are warmer, but give off dark smoke! We switch to them after sunset!’
The men hurried past like frightened rabbits. Chin rolled his eyes and shook his head. No wonder they don’t live long, he thought The wind whistled by. But the frigid gust could do nothing to increase his misery. He was already frozen to the bone. Hungry. Dying slowly, along with all his men.
Clark saw the thick torso of Admiral Ferguson emerge under the still-spinning rotors. He saluted Major Reed, who led him to the waiting Clark.
Ferguson looked out of place amid the Army security team. He wore a Navy blue greatcoat over black boots. Atop it all rested a white Kevlar helmet A black 9-mm hung from a pistol belt strapped around his vast waist. He was Clark’s superior — commander-in-chief of Pacific Command.
Clark saluted, then shook the admiral’s hand. ‘Welcome to Khabarovsk, sir,’ he said loudly over the dying whine of the rotors. They headed toward the heavily sandbagged bunker. At least a dozen aides and well-armed guards had formed around them.
‘Not as cold as I thought it’d be, ’ Ferguson said as they walked briskly from the heated helicopter to the heated bunker.
Clark let the comment pass. He was already pissed at Ferguson’s surprise visit, so he was doubly careful what he said. ‘How was your trip?’ he asked. He fell naturally into step with the the admiral. The senior man strode unmindful of the expected display of respect. Within moments, the entire phalanx of aides and bodyguards marched in near parade-ground unison.
‘Flight was smooth as glass,’ the admiral replied. ‘No thermals coming up from the ground. Must mean it’s cold, I suppose.’ They reached the bunker’s entrance. Two sentries had risen from behind sandbags to stand at attention.
They entered the cold staircase that led down to the operations center.
Ferguson stopped at the bottom of the stairs. Clark almost ran into the mountain of navy blue wool. The admiral waited for one of his aides to enter the operations center first. ‘Attention on deck!’ the man shouted — calling the room to attention.
‘Carry on!’ Ferguson boomed as he walked briskly into the room. Businesslike. Purposeful. As if he were on the bridge of a ship. But he clearly had no idea where to head. He instead wandered among the staff. Clark trailed in his wake but outside the scope of his attention. Several times Clark considered abandoning the entourage and heading back to work. But he dutifully tagged along — seemingly unnoticed by the group’s leader.
‘Where ya from, soldier?’ Ferguson asked.
‘Lyon,’ the French officer replied.
Ferguson seemed surprised. The man wore cold-weather gear from American stocks. ‘A-a-h, comment allez-vous? He thus began a conversation in French that brought smiles from the French contingent.
Clark looked away. He didn’t speak French. Ferguson slapped the Frenchman on the back — interrupting the man’s intended response and moving on. Clark smirked. Like a politician, he thought as he followed the four-star admiral. Is that what it takes? he wondered.
Ferguson left a broad wake through the center of the room. His visit completely disrupted the harried officers’ routines. At the opposite end of the main area, the admiral suddenly turned to Clark and said, ‘Let’s go to your office.’
It was the first time since entering the operations center that Ferguson had seemed to notice Clark’s presence. Clark led his boss not to the desk in the corner of the big room that he used as his working area, but to the office that he used only for sleep. Luckily, someone had turned on the lights and gathered the pillow and blankets from the sofa.
‘I like a man with an uncluttered desk!’ Ferguson bellowed on entering. ‘An uncluttered desk means an uncluttered mind.’ He declined Clark’s offer to sit and turned instead to his aide. He brushed the air with his fingers. ‘Would you…?’ The blue-clad navy captain held out his arms and cleared the room of Clark’s aides. The naval officer turned and noiselessly pulled the door closed. When Clark looked back around, Ferguson was busy taking an inventory of Clark’s office. The supplies lay in neat rows on the unused desk.
In the quiet, Ferguson fiddled with the tape dispenser, the letter opener, the Dictaphone. He even opened a stapler to confirm it was loaded. Clark finally opened his mouth to inquire as to the reason for the visit, but Ferguson beat him to the punch.
‘I suppose,’ he began, overly loudly, ‘that you’re wondering just what the hell I’m doing here?’
The navy man looked directly at Clark, then began suddenly to peel off his heavy coat Clark took the opportunity to do likewise. Ferguson tossed the pistol belt on Clark’s sofa/bed. ‘Ill get right to the point.’ The enormous overcoat landed on top of the pistol, revealing a man of diminished but still substantial girth. Underneath he wore white fatigues. Ferguson sat with a groan, and Clark took the chair beside him.
Ferguson picked up a staple-remover. He began to toss it in the air and catch it one-handed. ‘I’ve had some misgivings about the strategy you’ve employed in this war. I want to discuss with you some possible changes.’ Clark arched his brow up as if to say that of course he would be receptive to any advice given to him about the conduct of his ground war by the former carrier pilot — a navy man who by historical accident happened to be his immediate superior. ‘You’re fighting not to lose,’ Ferguson said. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. His back, while not hunched, was large and round in that position. This strategy of pulling everybody back into tight groups of mutually supporting firebases cedes the initiative to the Chinese. We sit back and let them do what they will in the field while we hoard our assets here and around Vladivostok. By doing that, we fail to make use of our superior mobility. We could be out there running circles around their infantry. Hitting them hard, ’ he slammed one meaty paw into his palm, ‘and then outrunning them to set up another ambush.’
He sat upright now, and Clark gathered that it was his turn to speak. He cleared his throat. ‘It is true, Admiral Ferguson…’
‘Franklin.’
‘… Franklin,’ Clark repeated, ‘that UNRUSFOR’s nominal tables of organization and equipment provide us with superior mobility. But that advantage has been substantially degraded by a variety of factors, not the least of which was the failure to deploy the service and support units necessary to maintain that equipment in a harsh environment. Most of the allied units were deployed without their heavy equipment. What they did have has deteriorated through lack of maintenance.’
Ferguson was not the most patient of men. Before Clark had finished, he wore an irritated look on his face. He waved Clark off with his hand and said, ‘You’re talking maintenance. I’m talking about the operational art, general! Campaigning. Our fundamental strategic approach to halting the Chinese advance.’