by Larry Bond
They were already chasing after the screaming crowds scattering back down Sejong Street. Some were still shooting, firing from the hip as they ran. Others contented themselves with clubbing any student within reach.
McLaren saw one trooper pause, aim, and send a long burst into a small group of pleading men and women cowering in front of a department store display window. They were thrown back in among the bullet-riddled mannequins.
He kept running down the street, but a muffled cry following a sharp groan brought him skidding to a stop. He turned. There, not ten feet away, was a crazy-eyed Combat Policeman trying to tear the TV camera out of the hands of the CNN cameraman he’d seen earlier. The soundman sat slumped against a car door, hands pressed to his face with blood running out between them.
That, by God, was too damned much. McLaren didn’t much care for most reporters, but these guys were Americans, after all. He charged in, pulled the riot trooper around by his combat webbing, and sent a right cross smashing into the man’s face. The Korean staggered back, and McLaren followed up with a left into his stomach. The trooper grunted and fell over gasping for air. McLaren felt himself grinning despite himself. Not bad for a man in his fifties.
He turned to the cameraman kneeling by his partner. “Can he walk?”
The reporter nodded. “Yeah. I think so. But we’re gonna have to help him along.” He slung his equipment across his back. Then, for the first time, he took a close look at McLaren. “Jesus, man. I don’t think I’ve ever been rescued by a real, live U.S. cavalryman before.” He stuck a hand out. “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
McLaren shook hands. “No problem.” He bent down to take one of the dazed soundman’s arms. “Right now, though, I think it’s time to get the hell out of Dodge.”
With the wounded man stumbling between them, they lurched up the street toward the American embassy. Behind them, McLaren could hear the rattle of automatic weapons still echoing throughout Seoul’s city center. It sounded like all hell was breaking loose back there. It might spread across all of South Korea. And if it did, he and his troops were going to get caught right in the middle.
CHAPTER 3
The Washington Waltz
SEPTEMBER 8 — CAPITOL HILL, WASHINGTON, D.C.
The televisions are always on in a Congressional office.
“Good morning. I’m Amanda Hayes and this is a CNN special report — The Massacre in Seoul.”
Jeremy Mitchell looked up into the TV screen perched precariously on his bookcase. One hand reached for his tortoise-shell glasses while the other shoved the latest draft press release on National Frozen Food Week off his notepad. Without taking his eyes off the small screen, he waved the nearest intern over, a short, pudgy University of Michigan junior who was spending his fall semester learning the business of government while duplicating constituent mail for a congressman. Mitchell ignored the discontented frown on the kid’s face. Endless hours of gofer work — stapling, filing, duplicating — those were the dues you paid to get more meaningful work later on.
Mitchell had paid his own dues in full. Summers as an unpaid campaign volunteer. University terms spent crawling as an unpaid, overworked congressional intern. Two years after school as a poorly paid legislative correspondent, locked away for sixty-hour weeks drafting and redrafting answers to letters written by constituents. By then he’d seen how the system worked. You climbed over the still-warm bodies of those who’d thought they were your friends and coworkers. He’d used that knowledge to win a succession of promotions — first to handling domestic issues as a legislative assistant and later to committee staffer. A lot of people who’d trusted Jeremy Mitchell’s sincere smiles, open-featured good looks, twinkling blue eyes, and firm handshake had long since come to regret trusting first impressions.
Now, ten years and a pile of broken friendships later, he held the top-dog slot in any congressional office: he was the administrative assistant — the AA. And that meant he ran everything and everyone in the office, including the representative, if the man or woman was malleable enough.
Mitchell smiled thinly to himself. Ben Barnes was so malleable that he often reminded people of the Playdough little kids loved to squeeze and squash. He darted a glance at the intern impatiently waiting. “Phil, go get the congressman. He’s going to want to see this.”
The intern nodded grumpily and went, threading his way through the crowded maze of desks, cubicles, bookcases, filing cabinets, and stacks of newly printed newsletters that marked any House-side congressional office. Senators and their staffs usually had more room, but House members and their people worked under conditions that would have made a sweatshop seem spacious. A single suite of two rooms usually held twelve to fifteen harried staffers, their phones, files, and personal computers.
Congressman Ben Barnes appeared out of his inner office moments later, looking rumpled with wisps of his thinning, ash-blond hair sticking up at all angles. A wrinkled red silk tie hung loosely from his open shirt collar, and his eyes were puffy and bloodshot. Mitchell took it all in and made a mental note to never again let the congressman attend an auto industry luncheon unaccompanied. Thank God there hadn’t been any unfriendly press there. Barnes never seemed able to resist an open bar unless there was somebody around to pull him away.
The congressman smiled uncertainly and blearily at his AA. “What’s up, Jer?”
Mitchell pointed at the screen.
“… as this tape from a CNN camera team shows, armed troops began firing on the students — apparently without warning.
“Reports are sketchy and the South Korean government has imposed a news blackout, but it appears that at least several hundred people have been killed. Sources in one Seoul hospital report treating dozens of gunshot wounds and emergency rooms all across the city are said to be overflowing with the critically injured. There are even unconfirmed reports that several American or European tourists have been killed.
“For now, Seoul remains under strict curfew. And South Korea’s security forces have warned that violators will be shot on sight. That’s a threat they seem all too willing to enforce. This is Amanda Hayes. We’ll have more news from Seoul on the half-hour.”
Mitchell reached up and turned the volume down — shutting out an ad for hay fever medicine. He spun around in his chair to face the congressman.
Barnes seemed puzzled. “Very interesting, Jer. But couldn’t you have just put together a memo for me? I’ve got a million things to do before the committee meets this afternoon.”
“But don’t you see …” Mitchell stopped. Yelling at your boss was not recommended for Capitol Hill survival. He tried again. “Ben, this is the kind of break we’ve been waiting for. This Seoul massacre thing gives us the leverage we need to put an imports bill on the legislative fast track.”
“That’s great. That’s really wonderful.” Barnes still looked a little lost — an expression he was careful never to wear in front of TV cameras or constituent groups.
Mitchell decided to lay it all out. “South Korea makes those cheap Hyundai cars and other products that have the unions back home all hot and bothered. They want some more tariffs and import restrictions to even things up, but we haven’t been able to move anything worthwhile through both the House and Senate.”
Barnes seemed to be following along, so he threw in the clincher. “Right now these news reports are being shown all across the country — in every district — so I don’t think South Korea’s going to have too much public support by nightfall. They’ve been getting bad press for some time now, and this should really fan the flames. If we got a tough trade bill moving, we just might be able to ram it through before all the ‘free traders’ know what’s hit them. And that would make the autoworkers back home very happy.”
“And I’m going to need the autoworkers next year when I run for the Senate.” Barnes finished the sentence for him. He grinned. “That’s great thinking, Jer. Let’s do it. Draft up a real solid bill for me, something that’ll pull
in a big coalition and get me a lot of press. I’ll take a look at it later this afternoon. Okay?”
Mitchell nodded and Barnes left humming happily. Mitchell spun back around to his keyboard and opened a new file, Korea-Bash. He smiled to himself. That was going to be a pretty accurate title.
Now, he thought, let’s see just what kind of a packaging deal I can come up with. Packaging was everything on the Hill, and if you wanted to pass a bill, you had to be sure it had a little something in it for every important interest group. That was part of the fun.
Mitchell started making a list.
The first section had to be a strong condemnation of South Korea’s human rights abuses and a tough set of required democratic reforms, with a short-term time limit for their implementation. Church groups and the other liberal lobbying organizations would really lap that stuff up.
Then came the sanctions the U.S. would impose if the Koreans didn’t put the reforms in place before the deadline.
The most obvious were new tariffs on Korean imports coming into the country. That would give the union bosses their bone, and they, in turn, would give a lot for Barnes come the next election.
Mitchell paused, his hands held over the keyboard while he thought. Yeah, the U.S. had troops in South Korea. Well, we wouldn’t want to prop up a corrupt, tyrannical regime, would we? He typed in “Withdrawal all U.S. forces if reforms not made.” That would piss off the conservatives, but it would win solid backing from the liberals in the party caucus. Maybe they could make sure that any troops pulled out of South Korea were sent to bases in Texas. That would make the Speaker happy. And making the Speaker happy was a crucial part of getting any bill through the House of Representatives.
Now he needed something to help break up the conservative opposition. “Cut off all military aid to South Korea and use the money to reduce the deficit.” Mitchell smiled. That would pick up a few votes. And it would give some of the Southern Democrats a conservative fig leaf to hide behind if they voted for the bill.
That should do it. Mitchell knew that the committee’s legislative counsel cold turn his rough notes into a polished piece of legal language in a matter of hours. He could concentrate on putting together all the background material they’d need — “Dear Colleague” letters soliciting support from other congressmen, fact sheets, and most importantly, press releases. Given two or three days and some good staff support, and he could flood the Hill and the airwaves with talk about Representative Barnes’s new South Korean sanctions bill.
Then he frowned at the outline taking shape on his screen. Any bill drawn up along those lines should be a real vote-getter. The trouble was it touched on everything from trade and taxes to defense and foreign affairs. And that opened the door for practically every major committee in both the House and Senate to demand a piece of the action.
Mitchell wasn’t sure who had first called committees “God’s gift to procrastination, sloth, and delay,” but it could be a completely accurate picture at times. With only a few weeks left until the Congress was scheduled to adjourn, there just wasn’t time to waste while every committee held hearings, tossed in its own favorite amendments, and issued its own thousand-page report. He was going to have to get Barnes to cut enough deals with the other committee chairmen to win expedited consideration for the bill. Even worse, he was going to need a senator to do the same thing over on the other side of the Hill.
Okay, it wasn’t going to be easy — but it could be done. And if he could pull this off, his reputation as a top-notch legislative strategist would be made forever. That was something worth working for. He just hoped that the South Koreans didn’t get smart and stop killing each other before they could get the bill through.
Mitchell turned away from his computer screen and started flipping through his Rolodex. It was time to start calling in a few favors. For years he’d made sure that Barnes carried water for liberal political action groups and for the unions. Now he was going to cash in. Besides, they’d all probably jump at the chance.
He pulled a card out of his Rolodex and started dialing. It had begun.
SEPTEMBER 11 — THE CBS EVENING NEWS
The reporter stood framed against the Capitol dome.
“This is Phil Smith, reporting from Capitol Hill. Just three days after the Seoul massacre, Congress has begun moving against the South Korean government.
“In a press conference held this afternoon, Representative Ben Barnes of Michigan, chairman of the House Subcommittee on Trade, and Senate Foreign Relations Committee Chairman James Farell of New York, announced the introduction of a stiff sanctions bill aimed at South Korea. More than one hundred congressmen and thirty senators have already announced their support for the measure.
“The bill calls on the South Korean government to institute major political reforms. Among other things, it demands an end to press censorship, freedom for all political prisoners, and the immediate reform of the entire South Korean security force.
“It also seeks the complete removal of all trade barriers aimed at U.S. exports to Korea, and a significant reduction in Korea’s trade surplus with the United States.
“If these conditions aren’t met within ninety days after the bill is signed into law by the President, the measure would automatically impose tariffs on almost all South Korean products coming into this country, end Korea’s most-favored-nation trade status, and cut U.S. military assistance. And in a move guaranteed to outrage congressional conservatives, it would also require the complete withdrawal of all U.S. forces now stationed in South Korea.”
The picture cut to footage of Ben Barnes speaking earnestly into the camera.
“We have no quarrel with the people of South Korea. Nor do we seek trade protectionism for its own sake. But we also know that America cannot be seen to side with oppression, tyranny, and ruthless terror. The South Korean government must learn that its brutality will not go unpunished. America will not condone cold-blooded murder. And the Congress cannot stand idly by while democratic reform is crushed underfoot in South Korea.”
The videotape of Barnes ended, cutting back to the CBS Evening News anchorman in New York.
“In other congressional news today, the House Foreign Affairs Committee continued its work on legislation aimed at improved Soviet-American relations by defeating an amendment that would have linked U.S.-Soviet ties with Soviet actions in Afghanistan.”
SEPTEMBER 12 — THE OLD EXECUTIVE OFFICE BUILDING, WASHINGTON, D.C.
Blake Fowler finished reading the telex from Seoul before tossing it onto the pile of papers on his desk. He leaned back, took his wire-frame glasses off, and rubbed his eyes. God, he was getting too old to stay up reading fine print all night. What you could do at twenty in college didn’t seem at all possible at thirty-five.
Fowler let his head drop onto his chest and closed his eyes. Maybe he could get away with a short in-office nap. People had to make allowances for you when you’d been up for almost twenty-four hours straight, didn’t they?
He already knew the answer to that question. National Security Council staffers were expected to be awake and alert for days on end, to brief politicians in a split second, to keep rival intelligence agencies from going to war against each other — and to leap tall buildings in a single bound for that matter. Just the kind of thing that getting a Ph.D. in Asian and Pacific Affairs prepared you for. Fowler squirmed, trying to get more comfortable. His damned desk chair must have been designed especially by the Spanish Inquisition.
“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty. Can I wake you with a kiss?” Fowler warily opened an eye to find his secretary hovering over him with a cup of coffee. She looked as tired as he felt. That wasn’t really surprising — she’d been working all night, too.
He sat upright. “Sure, Princess Charming. You can kiss me. But then you have to save me from my wife.”
Katie Morgan smiled. “No thanks, Beaut. I’d really rather go hunt a dragon for you. Have some coffee instead.” She set the cup
on his desk, carefully avoiding the stack of documents still waiting to be read, and dropped an interoffice memo on top.
“And speaking of reptiles, Putnam wants to see you in his chambers at oh nine fifteen sharp.” She looked at her watch. “Which is in ten minutes. He wants to know what happened to the world while he slept, or attended the congressional prayer breakfast, or something.”
“Ah, sh … darn, I mean.” Fowler started leafing through the papers on his desk. “Katie, I’m going to need the latest Agency analysis and those NSA intercepts. Putnam probably won’t understand them, but they look impressive.” He stood up, stretching and yawning. This was a hell of a way to start the new day.
Walking outside over to the White House made him feel a lot better. He could have taken the tunnel over, but the crisp, cool morning air woke him up more than coffee ever could. A gentle breeze ruffled his straight, brown hair. It was getting long, he thought, and he’d have to try to find time to get it cut.
As Fowler strolled across Executive Drive, the early-morning sunlight threw his image against the windshield of a parked Volvo. He turned his head slightly while passing to study himself. And grinned when he became aware of the unconscious habit. Although he never changed much between glimpses, he could never quite break himself of the mannerism.
At only a tad over six feet, Fowler wasn’t any taller than the average man his age, it was just that he was slender enough to make himself seem taller. His wife, Mandy, called him lean and rangy, but she was prejudiced. The tight fit of the khaki slacks around his waist made him realize that some of that youthful slenderness was starting to disappear — the victim of too much desk work, too many wolfed-down junk-food meals, and an aversion to most forms of exercise. For the thousandth time, he made a mental note to start swimming laps again, and for the thousandth time he dismissed it from his mind.