On the map were three red stars, one over the location of the Second Chinese City, one over the Hekla Community of Lydveldid Island, the third over Eden Base in south central American Georgia which had once been the United States. “Simultaneously” he began again, gesturing to each red star
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placement one after the other, “we shall strike these three targets. With such rapidity shall we strike that there shall riot be time or personnel for our allied enemies to react, let alone prevent our success. Here—” and he gestured to American Georgia — we shall strike against Eden Base and the German installation which guards it. Airborne elements will attack the German base and neutralize radar and other sensing equipment, while helicopter gunships move in to destroy Eden Base. The goal is to take the objective while maintaining destruction of., the installation’s extensive runway facilities and technological capabilities below the level of thirty-five per cent. Meanwhile,” and Antonovitch shifted his hand toward Hekla community, “our troops shall attack the German installation which guards Hekla community, utilizing the same general plan. That is to say that airborne forces will penetrate the base, destroy advanced warning systems and open the door for a helicopter gunship force to attack Hekla community itself. But, unlike the assault in American Georgia, the goal is total destruction of the German installation and total chaos in the Hekla community. With the base in American Georgia under our control, the base in Lydveldid Island will be insupportable and
abandoned.”
Antonovitch watched the eyes of his officers. There was admiration there. The godhood thing. He shrugged it away. His hand moved to the third objective. “Here, at the Second Chinese City, totally different tactics will be employed,” Antonovitch hoped, because all his plans for the Chinese objective rested on the successful on-site reconnaissance of the
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Second Chinese City by Prokopiev’s Elite Corps unit. “Here,” he began again, “the Elite Corps will parachute in and attack the city from the ground, striking boldly — ” he was improvising generalities as he proceeded “—to the heart of the Second City government, seizing control of communications, power and other facilities, demanding surrender.” His hand drifted over the portion of Western Europe where, at one time, there had been the country of France. “On the return from Hekla community, our forces will strike at the small German installation in the area bordering the lands to where the Wild Tribes were relocated. Unlike my predecessor, I have no thirst for genocide.” Some eyebrows were raised at his words, but he made no attempt to recant.
“The goal in attacking this secondary objective,” Antonovitch continued quickly, “is to further disrupt German lines of command and supply. There will be no attempt to attack the areas where the Wild Tribes are living, nor will the pre-fabricated factories which have begun servicing their needs for food and shelter be attacked. If the German technicians care to continue their work after the installation and the runways are destroyed, so be it. The area is of a humanitarian nature and therefore not a fit military target for the people of the Soviet. This raid will be carried out quickly. Our troops will re-equip at the Underground City, then proceed at best speed to reinforce our personnel at the Second Chinese City and hold this position against the inevitable attack from the First Chinese City.”
His eyes traveled over the room again. “The German units in Asia will be cut off and forced to
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surrender or die. The only serious German force will
be baseless outside its homeland. As conditions permit, once our new territories have been secured, the new German homeland in what was Argentina can be assaulted and destroyed should its masters fail to realize the inevitability of their fate and surrender. And the Rourkes, of course, will be without help. They will, inevitably, be captured and made to stand trial for their offenses, or killed. And, in the final analysis, the death of the Hero Marshal shall be forever avenged” And there would be peace, and the earth could once again flourish and, with control of the nuclear weapons the leadership of the Second Chinese City could lead him to, that peace would be enforceable.
He had read of the Pax Romana, the world peace achieved through military conquest. It was, in this case, the only way for the planet to step out of the dark ages of warfare into which, as the Americans had called it, the Night of the War had thrust mankind.
Whether this was the goal of the leadership of the Underground City or not mattered little to him. If their minds were like, then let them run this new world he would give them. If their goals were other than his, they would be powerless to stop him.
If he trusted anyone that thoroughly, he would have confided that the death of the Hero Marshal might one day be looked upon as one of the singularly greatest moments in human history, for Karamatsov would have destroyed the earth.
To rule among the ashes, to be master of the dead and dying, to know that in the end all would have
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been for nothing, seemed senseless, seemed mad to him.
“So, Comrades. What questions do you have? Because, Comrades, we strike-” and he consulted the Breitling watch at his left wrist” — we strike in fewer than twenty-four hours. And we shall forever alter the course of the future. Questions?”
There were none.
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CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Chinese heavy cavalry were upon them before they realized, and before a radio transmission came in from Han Lu Chen and Otto Hammerschmidt.
With a radio headset provided to him by his ally Major Vassily Mikhailovitch Prokopiev, so resistance to the Maoist forces could be coordinated, Prokopiev had said in panicked sounding English, “They come!”
From his side of the gap, Michael had been unable to see, and the wind had risen, so as dark gray —so dark they were almost black —clouds had driven in from the west that he had been unable to hear.
“They’re coming!” Michael rasped with a loud stage whisper, the Russian medical corpsman still on his side of the gap, attending the injured, most seriously wounded among them one of the Chinese enlisted men, the few survivors clustered around Michael Rourke as he waited for Prokopiev to open fire.
The Maoist cavalry was broken up into two distinct units, men dressed in the furs and astrakhan hats and informal body armor of the Mongol mercenaries, looking for all the world like something out of a Hollywood epic from centuries ago, “and (the larger element of the mounted force) men in faded pale red battle dress utilities, gray military looking parkas and baseball caps. Even the mounts of what Michael Rourke assumed to be regular army as opposed to mercenary, were less spectacular, all a dun brown or bay, not the
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gleaming blacks and speckled appaloosa-like mounts of the Mongols. Some of the Mongol horses, as opposed to the mounts of the regulars, were not the Pryzwalski-like animals so common here, but instead larger bodied, broad faced animals with powerful, sinewy necks and several hands taller as well, looking clearly to have Arabian lineage. Despite the natural independence of the breed, Michael Rourke felt these animals would be worth the challenge of a hard ride. He wondered if he would have the chance.
The buttstock of the M-16 was checked tight to his face, his right eye blinking periodically to keep from losing sight picture. He had taken aim on the evident commander of the force, a wizened-looking man of perhaps seventy, but tall, once a formidable figure, as Michael judged it. From the braid which adorned his baseball cap, Michale judged him at least a field grade officer if not higher. But it was the philosophy of the old cowboys and Indians movies he had watched as a boy at the Retreat. Shoot the chief and, while the enemy was disorganized, make your play.
He was ready to shoot the chief.
“That old man is a general, I think,” Prokopiev’s voice hissed in his ear through the headset.
“I’ve got him Vassily.”
“No— we will need this man if there is to be any hope of forcing them back. Trust this.”
“You and I apparently grew up on different movies. John Wayne would have shot the guy.”
“John Wayne?”
“A great actor, and in his way an ambassador of American moral values and philosophy.”
“I see. Do not shoot the old officer.”
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“Fine —shut up, will ya, so I can shoot something?”
Michael Rourke took a last glance at the old man, then shifted his rifle to another target, a younger officer. Prokopiev was the professional military man, Michael Rourke told himself.
The. rattle of sabers, the clattering of sling swivels, the clopping of hooves was louder now than the wind.
Michael settled his sights easily over the younger officer’s chest.