The Ten Thousand (20 page)

When she was sure all the cameras in the studio were off and the mikes were dead, Jan’s shoulders slumped forward. “God, Charley, where do you find these people? In the classified ads of a grocery store tabloid?”

From the booth to her side, Mordal laughed. “No, Jan dear. We send someone down to the unemployment office to screen the applicants. I thought you liked Army colonels?”

Her marriage to a colonel in the Army had amazed many in the business, since soldiers and the media were traditionally antagonists. Always a good source of amazement, Jan loved to shock people when she got the chance. “Charley, I like to sleep with colonels, not talk to them. You should try sleeping with one.

You might like it.”

The cameraman in the studio covered the mike in front of his face. “How do you know he hasn’t, Jan?”

Jan glanced over at the cameraman, trying hard not to laugh. Not understanding what the joke was, Mordal keyed his mike. “Jan, dear, unless you have a better idea, you’re stuck with our retired paper warrior.”

“Well, now that you mentioned it, Charley, I do have someone in mind.”

“You set me up, didn’t you?”

Jan, feigning innocence, sat upright. _”Moi, _ dear Charley, set you up?”

A technician leaned over and gave Mordal a fifteen-second warning. “Jan, you have ten seconds to tell me who this wonderful guest is.”

“Ed Lewis. After I’m through here, why don’t I trot over to his office with a crew and interview him.

I’m sure he’ll have some wonderful comments to make about this.”

“Five seconds, Charley.”

Mordal considered her suggestion, then nodded. “Okay, Jan, you’re on. I’ll get someone on it right away.” When the light came on indicating they were back on the air, Mordal settled back in his chair to watch Jan go to work. She might be a pain in the ass, he thought, but he couldn’t help marveling at the way she worked. She was not only damned good at what she did, she had a great mind. Turning to his assistant, he asked her to contact Congressman Lewis’s office and see if they could arrange for Jan to interview him later in the afternoon. While his assistant started making the necessary calls, Mordal returned to watching the retired Army colonel, who was using a map displayed on a screen to draw circles and lines as he attempted to describe the military operations in the Ukraine. His actions and diagrams, reminding Mordal of a sportscaster doing a Monday Night Football game, caused him to chuckle. Jan was right, he thought. This guy is rather comical.

While it was customary for the first soldier who saw Dixon enter the command post to shout, “At ease,” no one bothered to stop what they were doing and come to attention. Dixon didn’t expect them to and they knew it. The announcement, akin to the old naval tradition of calling all personnel on the bridge to attention whenever the captain came on or exited the bridge, made to honor the appearance of a senior officer, required everyone in the room to come to attention until released by the senior officer so honored. “Best you stay in practice,” Dixon would occasionally kid his staff, reminding them that “you never know when you may get someone in command of this gang of thieves who takes that shit seriously.”

Once he had pulled his gloves off and his hood back, Dixon began to make his way through the crowded command post to the hot stove in the corner. As he negotiated his way around tables, chairs, and members of the staff, someone shoved a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. Dixon turned to see who it was to thank him and quietly remind him that they needed a second cup of coffee. The soldier looked behind Dixon and winced when he saw Colonel Vorishnov. They still weren’t used to taking care of two colonels. After mumbling a short apology, the soldier ducked back into the command post carrier to fetch the second cup.

Vorishnov, who was following Dixon and had heard Dixon’s comments, acted as if he hadn’t. It would have been, he knew, impolite to do so, especially since Dixon had gone to great extremes to make Vorishnov not only feel comfortable in the American command post, but an equal. Even in Dixon’s absence Vorishnov was treated by the 1st Brigade staff in the same manner in which they treated Dixon himself. Vorishnov marveled at this. In his heart, he knew that he could never have dealt with a liaison officer from another army, regardless of rank or mission, in the same way in a Soviet or a Russian command post. Vorishnov had seen all too often how the unnatural xenophobia, the fear and hatred of foreigners, coupled with arrogance, often unfounded, handicapped the ability of Russian officers in their dealings with their counterparts in other armies. Even when he had been a commander, Vorishnov had known better than to insist on such equal treatment for foreign officers, lest he cause his subordinates to suspect his loyalty and judgment. Though Vorishnov wasn’t naive, and knew that not everyone in the command post of Dixon’s 1st Brigade accepted him with open arms, Dixon was sincere and Vorishnov was actually enjoying the assignment.

Moving to two free seats set around a stove in the corner of the command post, Dixon and Vorishnov joined Lieutenant Colonel David Yost, the brigade executive officer, and Command Sergeant Major Duncan. Neither man stood as Dixon and Vorishnov took off their heavy overgarments and draped them over the backs of the unoccupied chairs. Finished, Dixon surveyed the comings and goings of the staff before he sat down. “Well, I guess everyone’s gotten over the nuke scare.”

Yost grunted. “Everyone that’s not a ranger. According to corps, those boys are still pretty badly shaken. The company at the site that was trashed took over 40 percent casualties, including all but one officer.” Looking over to Vorishnov, Yost smiled. “And, in the spirit of cooperation, the senior Russian liaison officer with that company assumed command of the company, reorganized it, and led them out.

The corps commander was most impressed with that.”

Dixon shot both Yost and Duncan a knowing smile, appreciating that such a report would more than vindicate his insistence on including Colonel Vorishnov in all aspects of the operation as an equal. Before Vorishnov’s arrival, Dixon had told his staff that they could learn a lot from the Russians and, man for man, they were just as good. Now, Dixon thought, the last of the nay-sayers in his own command post would be convinced by the ranger incident. “The last report,” Dixon noted, “was that we had no fallout in our area of operation.

That was at the eighteen-hundred-hour update. Any change?”

“No,” Yost responded, shaking his head. “The storm that’s moving in from the west is sweeping everything east. Besides, follow-up reports indicate that the leakage of radiation from the site is minimal and well within acceptable levels.”

“Ha, I love it. Minimal. Who made that statement, some pencil-necked analyst tucked away safely in the basement in Langley?”

Unable to follow, Vorjshnov looked at Dixon, then Yost. Seeing that the Russian colonel was puzzled, Yost explained Dixon’s comment. “Langley, in the state of Virginia, Colonel Vorishnov, is where the
CIA
headquarters is.”

In an instant Vorishnov understood and joined the laughter. “Oh, yes. I understand. I see that we share a common appreciation for the abilities of our national intelligence communities.” The appearance of a cup of coffee in front of his face caused Vorishnov to pause while he took the cup and thanked the soldier who had brought it over. Taking a sip, Vorishnov continued while Dixon and the others politely listened. “In Moscow, as late as six months ago, our people released an intelligence summary that stated categorically that all nuclear weapons that had been in the Ukraine before the Commonwealth treaty were accounted for and destroyed. It even included a detailed description of how and where each weapon, by serial number, had been disposed of. Only the defection of a Ukrainian intelligence official, upset by the efforts of his government to sell several of their hidden devices, alerted us to the fact that some of the weapons still existed.”

When Dixon spoke, his tone was serious. “Did anyone ever find out what country was involved in that deal?”

Holding his cup of coffee in both hands in his lap, Vorishnov looked down at it for a moment before answering. That subject had been a matter of great debate once the report had been confirmed.

Everyone had their suspicions but little solid information to confirm them. Vorishnov, like many of his fellow officers, tended to believe the worst-case scenario presented by the Russian Army’s chief of intelligence. Looking up at Dixon, Vorishnov, however, decided not to share those beliefs, especially since Dixon’s command traced its line of communications through that country, and the United States Army in Europe depended heavily on Germany for support. How ironic, Vorishnov thought. If the suspicions were true, that support was denying the Germans the very weapons they were after. There is, he thought to himself, a God after all, smiling down on Mother Russia.

Like a shadow cast by a cloud momentarily blocking out the warm sun, Vorishnov’s pause and his change of mood told Dixon that Vorishnov knew something that he could not or did not wish to share with him and the other Americans. Knowing it was time to change the subject, Dixon took a sip of coffee, then turned to Yost. “Any change since the last update?”

“Negative. All units have assumed a hasty defense, per the corps order, and are ready to resume offensive operations or, on order, commence our withdrawal from the Ukraine. No new contacts since those reported at the eighteen-hundred-hour briefing and Major Thompson says that it looks like nothing is brewing on the horizon. Our biggest concern at this moment is the storm.”

“More snow?”

Yost grunted. “At least six inches, probably more.”

“Well.” Dixon sighed as he put his cup of coffee on the ground next to his chair and stretched out.

“You tell Princess Lea that I don’t want her to talk to me until she has a better weather forecast.”

Duncan laughed. “In this part of the world, sir, that will be a long, long time.”

Standing, Dixon looked down at Duncan. “You better hope not, Sergeant Major. Otherwise you’ll find yourself shoveling a hell of a lot of white stuff.”

“Well, sir,” Duncan retorted, “that will sure beat all the brown stuff your staff has been shoveling around here lately.”

Yost turned to Duncan. “Sergeant Major, you leave my staff alone. They try hard.”

“Oh, yes, sir, they do try hard. Exactly what it is they’re trying to do, however, is beyond me.”

Watching his XO and sergeant major rib each other caused Dixon to shake his head. “Now, now, children, don’t fight. I’m going to get some sleep. Be nice to each other while I’m away.”

While Yost smiled, Duncan protested, “Gee, Colonel Dixon, do we have to?”

Although Vorishnov understood that the Americans often engaged in casual and meaningless humor, it was hard for him at times to know when the subject and the mood had changed. They did quickly and with almost no clue. Even the detonation of a nuclear device by the Ukrainians and the political firestorm that would surely follow didn’t seem to diminish this desire to act in a manner that his fellow Russian officers would consider unprofessional. It was no wonder, Vorishnov thought, that so many of his contemporaries refused to take seriously America’s ability to wage war.

Standing up, Yost stepped closer to Dixon. Lowering his voice, he informed Dixon that the commander of the 3rd Battalion of the 3rd Infantry, Lieutenant Colonel Richard Zacharzuk, wanted to talk to him as soon as possible on a personnel matter.

“Let me guess. He wants to talk to me about Second Lieutenant Ellerbee, doesn’t he?”

Surprised, Yost looked at his commander and nodded. “Yes, sir, exactly. How did you know about that?”

Moving his hands and arms as if he were working levers and dials, Dixon boomed in a sonic voice,

“The Great Oz knows all and sees all.” This sudden disturbance of the command post’s dull late-night routine caused everyone in the command post to momentarily cease what they were doing as they looked over to see what their commander was up to now. Stopping his wild motions, Dixon looked about, smiled, then turned back to Yost as he continued the conversation in a low voice. “Besides, Jim Tuttle collared me on the road and gave me the 2nd of the 35th Armor’s side of the story already. What do Rick Zacharzuk and the company commander involved say about Ellerbee?”

“Both Rick and Nancy Kozak, Ellerbee’s company commander, want Ellerbee and his platoon sent back to 2nd of the 35th Armor immediately. Rick says the kid’s a sorry excuse for an officer. Kozak doesn’t want him endangering her command.”

Dixon moaned. “I was hoping to avoid getting into that tonight.”

Yost shrugged. “You’ll have to admit, sir, getting one of your own men killed and losing control of your unit in the middle of a battle does make Ellerbee look like a problem.”

“David, I agree. But we don’t know what happened. We have only the stories of two battalion commanders, both of whom are tired, in the middle of a combat zone, and neither of whom was there, making judgments. I refuse to make any changes or to relieve an officer without at least a cursory investigation.” Dixon paused as he thought. “The situation down there has stabilized, so there is little likelihood that 3rd of the 3rd will be engaged in a serious fight for a while. Contact both commanders involved and inform them that I have no intention of changing the task organization or relieving anyone at this time. Ellerbee will stay exactly where he is, doing his job, until I can personally look into this matter with a clear head and with all the facts in hand. Clear?”

“Loud and clear, sir.”

Taking a deep breath, Dixon looked around the command post one more time. “David, Colonel Vorishnov and I have been on the road most of the day. We’re going to get some sleep. Unless something exciting happens, no one’s to disturb me until at least oh five hundred.”

Duncan stood and turned to Yost. “I’ll inform the duty
NCO
, sir, and then take the colonels to their quarters.”

Satisfied that all was in order and that his presence was not required, Dixon began to gather up his gear and put his parka on. “I hope, for the sergeant major’s sake, we don’t have to make a major trek to find my bed. I’m beat.” Turning to Vorishnov, Dixon winked. “It’s hell getting old, isn’t it.”