MAGTAFs — Marine air-ground task forces — come in different sizes, but the one General Freeman ordered in from Korea was a MEF — marine expeditionary force — a total of fifty-one thousand men, forty-eight thousand of these marines, fifty amphibious ships, and armed with everything from sixty Av-8 short-takeoff and — landing Harrier jets, forty-eight F/A18 fighters, twenty A-6E all-weather night-attack aircraft, twelve KC-130 refuelers, sixty Chinook 46 medium-lift and assault choppers, twenty-four attack helicopters, Hawk surface-to-air missiles, and at least eighty Stinger surface-to-air missile teams.
The MEF also contained seventy MBTs, over sixty-five heavy mortars, 150 TOW antitank missiles, plus 216 assault amphibious vehicles, over one hundred 155mm howitzers, and other medium mortars. Such a force could not easily be hidden, yet without the element of surprise it would take at least a four-to-one marine advantage to be able to secure the beach. Air support of course would be telling in their favor, but two or three ChiCom divisions drawn south from the Orgon Tal-Honggor line could soon engage this force of Freeman’s at the beach. And what Cheng lacked in air cover for his own troops would be made up for in having at his disposal the largest coastal navy in the world, its northern fleet headquartered at Qingdao. But surely the Chinese would pick the MEF up at sea on radar.
They did, but Freeman, in another brilliant stroke of strategy, had the naval force set its heading, under Major General Strachan, south to the Formosa Strait and notified Admiral Kuang of the ROC — Republic of China — Navy accordingly.
“Two birds with one stone,” Freeman explained.
“You think they’ll fall for it?” Norton said. “If they send too many divisions south, Kuang could be in for a nasty landing.” Freeman had no sympathy for a man who was indecisive. If Kuang was holding his men off for no good reason, then he deserved a fright. And if Harvey Simmet was right that another monsoon was building over the South China Sea heading into Fukien province across from Taiwan, then the marine force racing south could turn about under cover of bad weather with Kuang meanwhile thinking the Americans were coming to his aid. Once on the beach, Kuang would be as committed in Fukien as the marines would be north at Beidaihe — if they had to land. Norton didn’t like it because it smacked of pulling a fast one on Kuang — it was playing politics, he bravely told Freeman.
“Balls, Norton! Every Tom, Dick, and Angela whines about something being political when it’s not going their way. When it is going their way they call it foresight, brilliance, tactical skill, anything but politics. Man is a political animal, Norton. Ask Cheng and his crew holed up in the Zhongnanhai. Those gentlemen are going to get one hell of an education in politics, in—” He paused and looked at his watch, which was not on top of but under his wrist so that in action there would be no unnecessary glare. “In about six hours,” Freeman continued, “providing Harvey Simmet is right about the bad weather.” Freeman’s face suddenly lost all its lines of happy anticipation. “By God, if he isn’t, the Chinese’ll see the MEF heading back up north.”
“Quite possible!” Norton said nonchalantly.
“Norton.”
“General?”
“Get Harvey up here. On the double.”
“Yes, sir.”
Harvey had his gloved hands around the tin cup of strong coffee when he saw the rain cape approaching: Norton. He poured the coffee out, muttering, “Goddamn it!” Norton felt bad about it. He didn’t think for a moment that Simmet’s forecast was wrong or needed updating — the barometer was still falling for all to see, and even CNN was saying there’d be monsoons over the South China Sea as far north as China’s Bo Hai Gulf — but Norton hadn’t been able to resist planting a seed of doubt in Freeman’s mind. A little uncertainty did wonders in deflating a prima donna’s ego and for making him think twice. Besides, hadn’t Freeman himself told Norton that if he, Freeman, ever got too cocky to remind him of the Never-Skovorodino road where the fake Siberian tanks had suckered him?
“Harvey!”
“General.”
“Harvey, you boys down there at the met office are doing a crackerjack job.”
“Thank you, General. I’ll tell the men.”
“Harv!” Freeman said, putting his arm round the met officer. “Norton here tells me that this monsoon could lift— give away the position of our MAGTAF. Is he right?”
“Well if it lifts it could — if they have their coastal boats out that far, but I doubt they’d do that in heavy seas, General. Monsoon is traditionally tie-up-at-the-docks time.”
The general was reassured but not convinced.
“But you would say we’re in for bad weather.”
“Very bad.”
“Thank you, Harvey.”
“Landing in a monsoon,” Norton said, thinking ahead about Beidaihe, “would be considered foolish by some commanders, General.”
“That’s precisely what I want Cheng to think, Norton.”
“General, there could be one heck of a lot of men sick as dogs on those landing ships while we’re playing chess with them.”
Freeman nodded. He was looking due east as if he could see through the terrible fighting now in progress near Honggor, where one of Freeman’s Bradley fighting-vehicle battalions had made a stunning counterattack using TOW missiles and their rapidly firing, armor-piercing 30mm cannon. He was looking as if he could see through the dust wall and mountain fastness of Manchuria all the way to the sea. “Dick, have you ever been seasick? I mean truly seasick, when even the very thought, the merest suggestion, of food made you want to throw up? Where the seas were so mountainous, so full of piss and fury that you could imagine death as the only release?”
“Can’t say I have, General — not that sick.”
“You know that’s how many of our boys felt on D day, after that June storm.” He turned to Norton. “You realize that Doug MacArthur threw up his guts the night before Inchon?”
“No, sir, I didn’t.”
“Well I do,” Freeman said, and put his hand on his subordinate’s shoulder. “Dick, let me tell you something. When you feel like that, the thing you pray for, desire most in the world, isn’t a good woman or a good cigar or a good plug of Southern Comfort Dick, all you care for is land, to set foot on dry land, muddy land, it doesn’t matter. You crave land. You make deals with the heavenly bodies — Buddha, Allah, God, Muhammad, your ancestors — anything. ‘Please get me to land where I can stand — and end this agony.’ By Christ, Norton, three days in that monsoon and those boys’ll turn into razors if I deliver them up to terra firma.”
“And if not?” Norton proffered.
“Then they’ll have to be sick.”
One such individual was PFC Walton, who was at that very moment on his knees at the stern of the eighteen-thousand-ton Iwo Jima-class amphibious assault ship. The smell of gasoline from the tied-down CH-46 Sea Knight and 11 CH-53 Sea Stallion choppers mixed with the smoke belching from the stack had caused him to vomit one more time, but there seemed to be nothing left to discharge. Every morsel of food, every dribble of liquid, had been heaved out of him, and he was the shade of stewed celery. Already on his knees, he promised God that if He spared PFC Walton he would fight the godless Communists that kept this vast land in subjection. At this point his eyes had no real focus but seemed to be rolling with the ship. Certainly he was only dimly aware that his buddy, Sergeant Hamish of the thirty-man rifle squad, stood next to him, his left foot looking smaller than his right as he fought the pitch and yaw of the ship.
“Hey, you look ill, man!”
Walton made an indecipherable kind of moaning sound that ended in “go away,” accompanied by his right hand waving his comrade back. Instead of helping his friend, Hamish ignored PFC Walton’s request to be alone. “Look, man, you’ve got nothing left in your gut. No wonder you’re sick.” He had to repeat this as the wind at the stern stole his first sentence of advice. “Listen, man, this is nothing — old man says we’re in for a monsoon proper in the next forty-eight hours. A real mother of a storm.”
PFC Walton emitted a great gorillalike groan that ended in a heartfelt “No!”
“Fucking yes!” Sergeant Hamish said. “Come on down below and—”
Walton shook his head in abject defeat, wiping his mouth on his arm. “I’ll be… I’ll be…” But whatever it was, he couldn’t finish.
“Okay, okay,” Hamish said. “Stay up here if you like, but I’m bringing you some chow. What do you want— coupla eggs? Milk?”
Walton gave a great heave and vomited bile, and his head rested or rather lolled across his wrists from left to right and back again with the roll of the ship. His whole body was a definition of defeat. “Fuckin’ monsoon!” he bellowed into the wind.
“Freakin’ right,” Hamish answered. “A monsoon soon. Get it?”
If PFC Walton could have, he would have killed Sergeant Hamish right there on the deck, but there was no strength in him.
As the task force sailed into the frenzied wake of the typhoon, thousands of miles eastward Rosemary Brentwood, in premature labor brought on by the shock of the intruder, was having her baby by cesarean section because it was in the breach position. On top of the trauma of having shot the intruder dead, it was a nightmarish experience for her as she had a bad reaction to the local anaesthetic Marcaine used for the epidural, which produced hallucinations of such terrifying proportions that Andrea Rolston, out in the waiting room, could hear her friend’s primeval scream.
Twenty minutes later, a hospital-gowned nurse, her mask still on, came quickly through the door, taking the premature baby, a boy, into the intensive pediatric care ward. “The baby all right?” Andrea asked.
“Don’t know,” the nurse said abruptly as she rushed by, heading toward the IC unit in which Andrea then saw the nurse hooking up the baby to various tubes, assisted by two other nurses. Andrea immediately thought about the familygram Rosemary had sent her husband — before the, break-in, the shooting, and now this. “Everything fine,” had been her last two words.