Ralph Peters (24 page)

"
Yes, sir,
"
Daisy said.

"
And what chance do you think we have of stopping them, Miss Fitzgerald?
"
the secretary asked.
"
I'd just like your view.
"

Daisy was, again, the subject of the monitor's attention. Taylor was genuinely curious as to what she would say in response. A smart, smart woman.

"
Mr. Secretary,
"
she began,
"
I can't give you numerical odds or any kind of probability statement. There are too many variables. I can only offer you an analyst's... hunch. Not very scientific, I'm afraid.
"

"
Please. Go on.
"

So far away, captured by electronics and delivered to him, Daisy's eyes were nonetheless alive, wonderfully,
fiercely alive.

"
First
"
she continued,
"
I am convinced that our presence is going to come as a shock to the Japanese There are no indications at this point that they have the least suspicion we've got forces on the ground. And that alone will give them pause. On the other hand, they may feel compelled to teach us a lesson in Central Asia, to pay us back for recent defeats elsewhere.
They're
still smarting from their reverses in Latin America. The performance of U.S. arms will be an important factor, of course. It our military systems perform according to specifications, the war will suddenly become much more expensive for the Japanese, both literally and figuratively. In that sense the chances for a negotiated settlement would increase dramatically. If we perform well enough on the battlefield.
"

The President interrupted.
"
Miss Fitzgerald, you haven't said anything about actually
winning.
"

Daisy looked into herself for a moment. Yes, Taylor thought. What about winning?

"
Mr. President,
"
Daisy said,
"
an outright victory would exist only at the extreme range of possibility. No matter how well the Seventh Cavalry and its supporting elements might perform, the numbers don't work out. A single regiment . . . can't win a war.
"

Oh Daisy, Daisy, Taylor thought. That s your problem. You don't understand faith. The ability to believe against the numbers, against the facts, against science and learned men. He believed that he had suddenly learned something very important about her, and he wished he could tell her. That she lacked only faith. That the world
could
be hers, if only she believed.

"
In any case,
"
Daisy went on,
"
we have to ask ourselves to what extent an outright victory would prove advantageous to the interests of the United States. Certainly, if the enemy wins, we lose access to key resources, while failing to deny those resources to the enemy—specifically, to the Japanese. Further, we lose influence. And prestige.

And, of indirect concern, the Islamic Union, the Iranians, and especially the rebels will continue their practice of massacring ethnic Slavs. Not a desirable outcome overall. However, should
we
'win' outright, we might only be setting the Soviet Union up for continued problems—for which we would suddenly share responsibility. The Soviet empire simply cannot hold together in its present state. Further, a victorious Soviet Union would be less susceptible to our influence. We want to enhance their dependence on us in key spheres. And the spectacle of a U.S. ally undertaking bloody retaliations and repressions in post
-
rebellion Central Asia would not present a desirable picture to other clients of the United States. Fundamentally, a compromise agreement ending hostilities on terms economically advantageous to the United States would be the optimum solution.
"

"
Miss Fitzgerald,
"
the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff said, in a voice of barely controlled anger,
"
your logic is very impressive. But let me tell you something both I and that colonel off in Siberia have had to learn the hard way. Victory is
always
advantageous. You can sort the rest of that shit out later.
"

"
Well,
"
the President said quickly, filling Taylor's monitor screen again,
"
we seem to have a divergence of views.
"
Waters looked down at the ruins of his salad, mouth twisted up as though something had not tasted quite right. He raised his left eyebrow.
"
Colonel Taylor? Are you still with us?
"

"
Yes, sir,
"
Taylor said immediately, snapping back to the present.

"
Well, tell me. What do you think about this discussion?
"

"
Mr. President, my soldiers ... don't picture themselves as fighting—or dying—for clever compromise agreements. They don't understand any of that. But they do understand the difference between victory and defeat, and from their position the difference is pretty clear-cut.
"

"
Does that mean . . . you think we can
win?
"

Taylor made a face.
"
I honestly don't know. I just know that an unknown number of fine young soldiers are going to die tomorrow thinking that we can win. No, 'thinking'
is the wrong word.
Believing
that we're going to win. Because I told them so. And they believed me.
"

The President pondered the little islands of lettuce shreds in his bowl.
"
Well
...
"
he said,
"
I hope they're right. Thank you Colonel. I won't hold you up any longer. I'm sure you have plenty to do.
"
The President looked out over the miles, searching for Taylor's eyes.
"
And good
luck. To all of you.
"

Taylor panicked. He had wanted so badly to end this nonsense, to return to his troops. But now the thought that he might never see Daisy again and that they had ended on a note of enmity, however indirect, paralyzed him.

Just a glimpse. Somehow, some impossible how, a word. The monitor left the President. But it did not go dead. Instead, the heavy, almost swollen-looking face of the chairman of the Joint Chiefs appeared.

"
George,
"
he said,
"
just one last thing. When the hell are you going to get out of that Commie uniform? You look like hell.
"

Taylor knew he was supposed to smile. But he could not.

"
Just before we lift off, sir,
"
he said.

"
Well, give them hell, George. And God bless.
"

"
Thank you, sir.
"

And the screen went blank.

Daisy.

Daisy felt as though everyone in the room must have realized how distraught she had become. She had struggled to overcome her emotions, forcing herself to brief in a voice that was even more dispassionate than usual. But the words, as she spoke them, seemed to come out just short of her intentions, and she felt as though she could not quite manage her thoughts.

It was
his
fault. She had watched him on the monitor during his conversation with the President, aware that he could not see her, that he had no reason to be aware of her presence. And, listening to him, to his raw, direct voice that would never compete with the Bouquettes of the
world, she had wanted to get down on her knees and beg the President to call it all off. The fate of the Soviet Union, the disposition of far-off minerals, could never be as important as this one decent man, with his antique notions about duty. As she talked in her turn, adorning the classified imagery on the monitors with professional terminology and icy judgment, she had felt as though she were condemning him, sending him to a certain death. The logic of politics and power, once so evident to her, now seemed like so much nonsense. It was only about people, after all. About men. And women. Who had found someone they just might love. Only to see them go, in the name of high-sounding foolishness. It was about George Taylor, with his pathetic face and his determination to do the right thing at any cost for a country whose citizens would shudder to look at him.

Was she punishing herself? Was it only a travesty of love? How on earth could she imagine for a moment that she loved that man? She had needed to turn off the lights and close her eyes, as well.

She liked him best when he held her, with her back small against his chest, and his strong arm cradling her breasts. Taylor, in his dress suit bought carelessly from some post-exchange rack, giving him the look of the world's most serious appliance salesman. The clown who brought a bottle of dessert wine for dinner.

How could she feel so much at the sight of such a man?

When he answered the President in those blunt, sensible words that made a mockery out of her analysis, her career, her fine education, she had only wanted to tell him that she was sorry, that she hadn't really meant it, that it was only that her thoughts and words would not come out clearly tonight.

He was not coming back. She knew it.

A demon inside her wanted to call out to him, right in front of the President and all of the old identical men who served him, to tell Taylor that, yes, she loved him, and she had loved him already on that last morning, but she had not had the strength, or the common sense, to tell him.

Then Taylor was gone, the communications link broken, and she was left with the blank monitors, and with Clifton Reynard Bouquette by her side.

The President was smiling, shaking his head. He glanced around the big table and tugged wearily at his tie.

"
Well, gentlemen,
"
he said happily, I suspect that this colonel of ours is going to strike genuine
fear
into the hearts of the enemy.
"
He bobbed his head slightly, in amusement.
"
God knows, just looking at him scares the hell out of me.
"

Everyone laughed. Except Daisy. Beside her, Bouquette laughed loudest of all. Then he leaned in close to her, whispering:

"
You're not going to make a fool of yourself, are you?
"

9

northern Kazakhstan

2 November 2020

The nursing mother crouched against the main
gun housing of Babryshkin's tank, her small, emaciated face barely visible under the oversize winter hat. Her layers of scarves, sweaters, and coat appeared to weigh far more than she could possibly weigh herself, and the infant was barely perceptible amid the disorder of felt and wool and worn-out fur. A small leg kicked back, the way a weaning pup pushes out at space, trying to bury itself closer to its bitch, and the tiny mother renewed her grip. Babryshkin sensed that the woman was very young, and that she might have been rather attractive under other circumstances, but now her cheeks were chafed until they looked like the dry skin of an old woman, and her sunken eyes lacked focus. Now and then she spoke quietly to her other child, a boy of perhaps four years, who clung to her coat with vacant eyes. When Babryshkin had lifted the boy onto the tank, lice flurried up from his cap like spanked dust. But the boy seemed unaware of the pests. He simply assumed his place beside his mother and stared out across the frostbitten steppes. The only sign he gave of normalcy was the avidity with which he devoured the stale crackers Babryshkin had put into his small hand.

Babryshkin had found the woman and her children at the rear of the truncated refugee column just as his
tanks
caught up with the plodding survivors. The boy had been unable to walk, and the half-starved mother was struggling to carry both her infant and her son, accomplishing little more than dragging the boy a few paces at a time. No one offered to help her. The refugees trailing the column felt the breath of the enemy a bit too strongly on their backs, and each had his or her own personal misery. The world had gotten beyond charity.

At the scene of the massacre, Babryshkin had abandoned his resolve
to
maintain full combat readiness at all costs. Instead of growing harder, he found that his strength
of p
urpose had peaked, and that his will was
now on a steeply descending curve. He had ordered the survivors of the bloody ordeal loaded onto his vehicles, and his column had quickly taken on a ragged, undisciplined look. There was a pervasive sense, almost as strong as an odor that little more could be done. The ammunition was virtually gone. The
fuel
hardly sufficed
to
c
ontinue the retreat. Against the political officer's protests. Babryshkin had continued
to
load the sick and disabled onto his tanks, personnel carriers, and trucks throughout the morning's progress. If he could no longer defend them, he could at
least
carry
them.

The turretless tanks had proved
to
have an unforeseen advantage under such conditions. Since only the narrow main gun housing rose above the flat deck, there was room for a greater load of human cargo than the older tanks could bear. Besides the young woman and her two children, an old man, two bent grandmothers and a sick teenaged girl cluttered the vehicle, hanging on
to
whatever bits of metal their gloved or rag-wrapped hands could grasp. The weather had turned very cold, and the air felt ready with early snow, but each of the passengers was glad for this opportunity
to ri
de exposed
to
the wind. The alternative was
to di
e by the side of the road.