Cutting in on the FAV network, Freeman informed Brentwood and the remaining FAVs that a Kiowa helo’s mast radar had picked up a high, stationary blob on his screen before returning to hover position over the M1A1s. His explanation: a high radar tower that once the storm died could give the exact positions of the M1s.
“That’s your second job,” Freeman ordered the FAVs through Brentwood.
The reporter, with Salvini and Choir, sallow with fear, asked what the first job was.
“To follow Aussie — under the guns,” Salvini said. “Haven’t you ever heard of that, under the gun?”
“I thought it meant, you know, having a gun on you,” the reporter said nervously.
Salvini shook his head. “Not here, chief. Freeman got us all together back there and told us the Pepperpots have an elevation of plus fifty-five and a down angle from the horizontal of minus two. You see he knows they can’t lower their barrels beyond minus two. So once we get into their no-shoot zones — under the guns, like the cavalry used to, that is, beneath me lowest angle of their dangle — they can’t use the artillery on us anymore.”
“So what will you do?”
“Are you serious?” Salvini yelled, shifting down again. “Shoot the fuckers. The gun crews. Think we’re out here for a picnic?”
There was a loud bang — the right front tire. The FAV skewed in the clay, or rather in what seemed to be hard soil much like clay. Salvini was out and unstrapping a spare-Choir covering him with the M-60 before the La Roche reporter knew what was going on. In the distance, a half mile to their left, there was a terrific salvo hitting and shaking the earth, and four more FAVs were gone. Only twenty-five remained.
By now some FAVs had taken more than twenty prisoners and returned them to the head of Freeman’s column, where me general himself directed the interrogation.
“Ask them who are party members.”
There was no response, though clearly several of the prisoners were frightened.
“Is it a shame to be a party member?” Freeman pressed through the interpreter. “Is there no honor?”
After a few seconds one of the Chinese POWs raised his hand. “Wo shi dang yuan, wo wei ci er gan daojiao ao”— I am a party member and proud of it.
Another man, then another, raised their hands, signifying that they too were party members. It was a surprise to the Humvee driver who’d driven Freeman back from his M1 to the mobile APC interrogation unit. Like so many American soldiers, he didn’t understand that the actual membership in the party in China, as in the CIS, was no more than 10 to 15 percent of the entire population. Most of the population in China merely obeyed because to do otherwise was to risk prison, torture, or death — beheading now reintroduced by Cheng and the Central Committee as a much cheaper alternative than wasting expensive bullets.
Freeman had the Communist party members removed from the APC. One of them glowered back threateningly at the others. Freeman’s calf-gloved hand shot out, his forefinger jammed hard against the man’s forehead. “Now don’t worry about it, Jack — it’s none of your business.”
Outside the APC a grunt was puzzled, asking another, “How come Freeman called the prisoner ‘Jack’?”
“Always does when he’s mad at you,” the older veteran replied.
“Where we got to take them?” the first grunt asked.
“Take them down the line and give them an MRE.” He meant one of the prepacked “meals ready to eat.”
“Constitution says we can’t do that,” the other grunt complained.
“Why the hell not?”
“It’s cruel and unusual punishment. One taste of that crap and—” They all flattened beneath the scream of incoming, the explosion of a Pepperpot’s shell seventy yards off creating a crater and a rain of sand.
Back in the APC, Freeman took his gloves and helmet off, the close atmosphere thick with the smell of oil, sweat, and cordite. Everyone was perspiring in the cramped quarters, including the general, but he looked fresher and suddenly became more informal, which helped ease the tension between him, the interpreter, Norton, and the POWs. Looking directly at the remaining prisoners, he nevertheless spoke quickly to the interpreter, the echo of his voice fairly booming inside the APC. “Tell them I admire the Chinese people. Magnificent fighters for thousands of years.”
Some men showed no emotion, looking impassively at him. Others had their faces down. One, unable to wipe his nose properly because of the plastic strip that cuffed his hands behind him, was wiping his nose on the shoulder of his loose-fitting, olive green “pajamas.” Freeman ordered Norton to cut the plastic cuffs off them.
“I like the Chinese,” Freeman repeated. “But I hate the party. The party exploits the people. A man needs more than an iron rice bowl.” Nearly all of the prisoners now looked up at him because he knew of Mao’s promise of the iron rice bowl — a promise of a strong agricultural revolution that would feed all China.
“A rice bowl is good,” Freeman went on, his hands resting in front of him in a relaxed, yet authoritative manner. “But is this all a man and his kin desire? Why can you not get into the foreigners’ hotels? The luxurious friendship stores — serving foreigners while you must work to make goods you cannot buy even if you had the yuan, which you don’t. Why is this?” No one answered, but he had their undivided attention.
“It is,” Freeman told them, “because the party keeps everything for itself. While you slave they sit in their baths at the Zhongnanhai and dine on succulent delicacies, and their chauffeurs drive them in Red Flags while you ride a bicycle.” The general paused. He knew they knew he spoke the truth.
“There must be another revolution against the party,” he added. “If you are to be free. But now you are like the cormorants who fish on the Yangtze with the rings about their necks so they can catch fish but are not allowed to swallow them. Do you wish to have the ring about your throat all your life?”
The interpreter finished, but there was no answer.
With that, Freeman took a large manila envelope from Norton, tore it open, and tipped it upside down — bundles of hundred-dollar bills spilling out on the bottom of the APC. “We suspect,” Freeman said, “that the party has a large radar tower and complex immediately to the south of us. We need to know its position because the storm hides it from us.” He put a thousand-dollar bundle in front of each man. He did not expect anyone to take it but merely wished to whet their appetites. But as he was putting his helmet and gloves back on, a hand dashed out and took a thousand, the man’s expression defiant. He spit and yelled.
“What did he say?” Freeman asked.
“It’s a little indelicate, General.”
“What’d he say, God damn it!”
“He said, ‘Fuck the party!’ “
“By God!” Freeman said, sitting fully up and grinning, looking like George C. Scott. “I like that. By God I do!” He extended his hand in friendship and the PLA soldier took it.
“Take the particulars from him, Norton. Once you’ve got the grid references—” Another man took a thousand, then another, and another. Soon only one bundle was left, and the last man — the others all looking at him — shrugged, then took the bundle before him.
“When you have the references, Norton,” Freeman repeated, “give them to the FAV leader. I want those towers and whatever buildings are around them taken out, and fast— before this storm stops!”
“If the FAVs get through the guns, sir.”
“If they don’t,” Freeman said, lowering his head to get out from the APC’s rear door, “I’ll kick ass from here to Kentucky. And Norton?”
“Yes, sir?”