“Douglas,” Gray informed him, “I read your letter and I must say I was a little surprised at it not coming through regular channels.”
Freeman grinned. “I didn’t think that would surprise you at all, sir. After all, you were the one who taught me about initiative. I figured if I sent it by regular post, last thing a Commie agent would think of is trying to penetrate our mail service — it being such a balls-up.”
Gray motioned him to a chair, with men dying as he spoke, he was in no mood for another one of Freeman’s harangues about the mail service. Freeman had once suggested that the postal service be run along military lines — any letter not delivered anywhere in the United States within four days would render all employees in the post office liable to a fifty-dollar fine.
“Douglas, I have to tell you up front your manner is considered extremely abrasive by many of your colleagues. And especially by the State Department. By all accounts, your record, militarily speaking, shows you should have had your first star two years ago.”
Freeman was wearing a scowl but nodding; he could feel possibility in the air. If he could only keep his cool. “Yes, sir, I understand that, but I’ve—”
“Goddamn it, Douglas, let me finish!” The figures on the TV screen of wounded and missing were changing. Getting worse, especially on Germany’s central front.
“In one hour,” continued Gray, “I have to present a contingency plan to the president. At that meeting there might well be several more members of the cabinet than usual. Transport and Communications secretary included. Military needs their help if we’re to have these NATO convoys loaded and shipped out on time, so I don’t want you getting anyone’s dander up unnecessarily. You’re a first-class tank and infantryman, Douglas, and God knows we need more like you. I’m giving you a chance to show your stuff, but if any questions are directed at you, remember you’re not Randolph C. Scott—”
“I think you mean George C. Scott, General.”
“What? Oh, yes. Christ! — Douglas, that’s precisely what I mean. It’s not—” Freeman affected a lot of people this way, bringing out the fight in them at the drop of a hat. It was precisely what was needed in battle, Wexler knew, but deadly to smooth sailing in Washington.
“Randolph Scott’s fine with me, General,” said Freeman, flashing a smile. The general was shaking his head, surprised at his own reaction to Freeman’s personality. The tank commander seemed to carry a charge in the air about him that stirred up everything it passed.
“What I need, Douglas — in simple, straightforward terms-is a plan for a tactical withdrawal from—” At the word “withdrawal” Freeman stiffened, all sense of humor, his earlier air of accommodation, gone.
“From Europe? General, this would be catastrophic—”
“What? — No, Goddamn it! Korea.”
Gray’s aide looked quickly at Freeman. Was he as good on his feet with an entirely new situation thrown at him? Freeman stared at General Gray.
“May I smoke?”
“No. Well-?”
Freeman swung his hard gaze up to the green fluorescent map of Korea, as if it were an assassin towering over him, daring him to risk a career. Gray was telling him the situation was much worse than the newspapers or anybody else outside the Pentagon had presented it. But whether Freeman had heard him or not, the general didn’t know, Freeman taking out his bifocals, leaning forward, looking past the casualty figures at troop dispositions in the Yosu-Taegu perimeter. “How up-to-date is this intelligence, sir?”
“Satellite,” answered Gray, turning to Wexler. “Real-time or delayed?”
“Real-time, General.”
“Air superiority?” asked Freeman.
“Not as yet. Holding our own, but that’s about all. Hope to get better as the Seventh Fleet moves further north, but Europe gets first call on everything.” Freeman was tapping the series of half dozen or so red lights flashing on the big screen on Japan’s west coast from Shikoku to Hokkaido. “What’s this? Air strikes?”
“Yes. Japanese fighters are doing well, but their main function is defense and they haven’t the carriers. Combat time off the North Korean coast is very short.” Now Freeman pointed to the position of the Seventh Fleet steaming north midway between South Korea and Japan’s main island of Honshu. He zeroed in on the cluster of blips behind the Seventh Fleet. “Reinforcements?”
“Yes. Nine Corps. It’s based in Japan.”
“Hmm—” responded Freeman. “Soft in the belly. Too much sushi and pussy. They won’t last.”
Wexler looked across at the general, who calmly responded, “Well, the Third Marine Division is part of the reinforcements, too.”
“Well — that’s good news. Problem is, we might not have any perimeter left by the time they get there. Those newspaper reports right about the NKA using some of our captured M-60 tanks?”
“Afraid so.”
“Goddamn it! That’s sacrilege.” Freeman shook his head like a medieval bishop might upon hearing his church had been sacked by vandals. “Course, the trouble is, we’re not up against Hitler here. This toad won’t hold back the tanks. He’ll drive us right into the sea if he can — which I suspect he’s close to doing right now.”
“Well, Kim’s no fool,” said Gray, “whatever else you might think of him. George Cahill found that out when—”
Freeman stood up, his stature growing in the reflection of the big screen. “Hell, no, General. I didn’t mean General Kim. He’s run-of-the-mill Commie trash. Learned all he knows in Beijing, where it’s all numbers — just keep pushing the bastards at you. And in Moscow — echelon attack with the tanks. No, I mean Kim Il Sung’s progeny. He’s blood-crazy. Killing all those people like that in Rangoon. Civilians. Blowing up women and children in airliners. We should have shot that bastard long time ago.”
“Then you think withdrawal’s the best bet, Douglas. Don’t be afraid to say so. Everyone else here’s come to the same conclusion.”
Freeman stood back from the screen, eyes moving quickly up to Korea to Japan to Manchuria, down to Korea again. “No, sir. I do not concur.”
“Then, Colonel, you’re a minority of one.”
Freeman took off his bifocals, grinning broadly as he slipped them back into his top pocket. “I know, General, I know.”
“You seem pleased.”
Freeman’s smile was gone. “I don’t like being beaten, General. Not by anyone. And ‘specially not by that goddamned psycho. Little runt needs a good kick in the ass.” Freeman held up his hand as if halting oncoming traffic. “General, I don’t mean to be disrespectful. I’m sure you understand that. But would it be too out of line to say that the policies of the majority of the general staff got us into this situation?” Gray said nothing. The screen flickered again and the perimeter had grown smaller, the NKA spearheads, however, reportedly stopping to draw breath before the final assault. Or was it, Freeman wondered, that the hard-pressed U.S.-ROK headquarters in Pusan had decided to give up a little territory in return for a smaller, tighter perimeter? Either way, it was shrinking dangerously.
Freeman had his bifocals out again, using them as a pointer on the screen. “Kim’s supply line,” he announced, pointing at Taegu on the western side of the Sobaek Mountains, which ran north/south between Taegu and Seoul. “Airborne attacks, General. Here at Taegu, where they have to haul freight through high country, and further up — at Taejon, halfway down from Seoul. This toad has got too big a mouth and not enough belly, General. Grabs more than he can hold. He’s overrun so much territory — damn near two hundred miles in a little over ten days— that’s why he’s cannibalizing everything he can. That’s why he’s using the M-60s. They can’t maintain sophisticated equipment like that. Haven’t got our ground support, technical backup. They’re using oxen carts to move half—”