‘Sir…’ Clark began to explain.
‘I told you I’m gonna shoot straight with you,’ Ferguson continued, ‘so here goes. There’s been talk by the desk jockeys back at the Pentagon about you being gun shy. About you being our “General McClellan.”’ Clark set his jaw firmly to mask his anger. Ferguson knew Clark — a West Pointer — would understand the historical reference. Many in the North had accused the Civil War general of cowardice for his tentative use of superior forces against the South. ‘They say you were traumatized by that Birobidzhan thing,’ Ferguson went on, ‘and that you’re now afraid to commit.’
Ferguson shrugged and shook his head as if to explain that he was, of course, Clark’s great and tireless defender. ‘Now I know what you’re going to say. You warned everybody who would listen about the risks of this war. You clamored for more men and heavier equipment that you still haven’t gotten. Et cetera, et cetera. But the fact is most of the allied units that are in the field right now haven’t even fired a shot. There’s a perception by many — and that includes the media — that we’re just letting them waltz in and take the place. Plus, there are the parallels to Vietnam.’
‘Vietnam?’ Clark said — incredulous.
‘To the firebase strategy. Sure, sure, defense is stronger tactically than offense, but assuming the defensive strategically can lose this war, general.’
Clark had no idea where to begin. He looked off into space. While one part of his mind tried to compose a response, the other fought vigorously to rein in his temper. Where should he start? With the politics of the shaky U.N. coalition. Clark felt like he’d barely held the alliance together. If he ordered a risky counterattack, it might bust the alliance apart. Or should he begin with the utter nonsense of his detractors’ assumptions? That large units could hit the Chinese hard, disengage, set up, and hit them again. Every third time a unit tried that, they’d get so tangled they’d be fixed in place and lost to the man. Better to use airpower to punish the Chinese, who were exposed while on their road marches and…
‘Washington wants you to change your strategy, Nate,’ Ferguson said simply. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
So that was it. Nate didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t flinch, or nod, or even blink. ‘Admiral Ferguson,’ he began in as even a voice as he could muster, ‘I have the better part of eight hundred thousand Chinese soldiers coming my way and less than two hundred thousand men in the field to oppose them. Four-to-one numerical inferiority. Now, in a couple of months we’ll have narrowed that gap to three- or even two-to-one by attriting the Chinese and building up our forces in theater. At three-to-one, I can show the world something. At four-to-one, I’m hanging on by sacrificing men’s lives to buy time.’
‘That’s one strategy,’ Ferguson said, ‘but it’s not the one endorsed by the Joint Chiefs.’
‘It’s the one endorsed by the joint command of UNRUSFOR.’ The two men stared silently at one other until Ferguson finally burst out, ‘God-damn but you’re a thick-headed son-of-a-bitch!’ He rocked back in his seat. His hands gripped his thighs as he sat there rigidly. ‘You must think the same about me.’ Clark said nothing. ‘Listen, Nate, you’re not leaving me much wiggle room here. You’ve been fighting this war out here all by your lonesome for three weeks, and you haven’t heard word one out of me but “What can I do to help?” Am I right?’ Nate had to nod. ‘Now why, all the sudden, do you think I come here and tell you you’ve got to change your basic strategy?’ Nate just squinted and cocked his head. ‘The decision has already been made, Nate. It’s been made back in Washington.’
‘By the Joint Chiefs?’ Ferguson nodded. ‘Dekker?’ The admiral nodded again. Clark was furious. He rose and began to pace the office, grinding his teeth.
‘Don’t shoot me,’ Ferguson said. ‘I’m just the messenger.’
‘I could lose more than the war! I could lose the war and UNRUSFOR — every last man in my command! A complete rout! What the hell do they think they’re doing? I’m hangin’ on here by my fuckin’ fingernails!’
Ferguson heaved a sigh. ‘Hate to say this to you, Nate, but the decision is over my pay grade.’
‘Over your pay grade?’ Clark said — turning to face the four-star admiral. Ferguson nodded in reply. Clark spoke in low tones now. ‘I’m not ordering those men out of their firebases. It’s suicide.’
‘Sounds like you’ve got some talking to do back in D.C.’ Nate was again confused. Ferguson was again frustrated. ‘Nate, if you don’t get your ass back there chop chop, you won’t have to issue those orders because you won’t have a command. Timmy Stanton’ll get it, and he’ll order the counterattack on the flight over from Seoul.’
Clark was shaking his head. ‘I don’t believe it. Stanton’s a good man. He wouldn’t do it either, not after he saw what he’s got, and what he’s up against.’
‘Maybe you’re right, but it wouldn’t change the fact that you’d be out of a job, general. You’ve got one move left to you, Nate. That’s to hop on a plane and get back to Washington pronto. You know how fast things move in that city. They may already have yanked the rug out from under you. I don’t know.’
‘What the hell am I going to say to Dekker that could possibly…’
‘Nobody said anything about you talking to Dekker. You’ve got a Major Command, general. You’ve got access right to the top.’
‘Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?’ Ferguson shrugged. His hulking mass rose. He walked over to the sofa to retrieve his coat and his pistol belt. He put the gear back on, staring off into space as he spoke. ‘I didn’t say anything. I’m just a dumb country boy from Tennessee. Don’t know why I even joined the Navy, seein’ as there’s no ocean anywhere near Clark County.’ He was fully dressed now. ‘I’m just going to take a nice, long tour of the battlefront. I’ll go all the way over to Chita in the west and then swing back through here on my way to Pearl. I’ll have to report that you refuse to change strategies when I get back. But I’ll probably be out of direct communications for a day or so. Sat phone’s on the fritz, you know.’ Ferguson faced Nate squarely. ‘He’s at Bethesda. Good luck. You’re sure gonna need it.’
The admiral turned to leave. ‘Thank you, sir,’ Clark said.
Ferguson turned back. ‘One more thing, Nate. By the time you land in D.C., you’d damn well better have a plan to win this war tucked under your arm. Capisch?’
Andre Faulk trudged through the snow. The heavy mail bag was slung over his left shoulder. He held it awkwardly — one-handed — so that he could hold his M-16 by the pistol grip with his right hand. Ugly black holes scarred the virgin snow. Tree limbs drooped to the ground. Exposed, fresh wood dotted the pock-marked trunks.
He finally saw a fighting hole. A white helmet protruded only inches above snow level. Andre headed toward the position. When he was a few feet away the head jerked around. The rifle followed.
‘Hey!’ Andre shouted. ‘Be cool, man!’
‘Jesus, get down!’ On hearing the tone of the man’s voice, Andre didn’t hesitate. He dropped immediately. He crawled forward into the man’s hole. ‘God-damn, man!’ the soldier spat. ‘What’re you, fuckin’ crazy? Jee-zus!’