by Larry Bond
Both Blake and the admiral knew what he meant. Putting the lumbering C-5 and C-141 troop transports of the Air Force’s Military Airlift Command on alert would also increase their ability to reinforce South Korea during a crisis. It wasn’t much, but it was probably the best they could hope for given the current political situation.
Blake just hoped they weren’t sending the wrong signals overseas.
DECEMBER 14 — PYONGYANG, NORTH KOREA
Lieutenant General Cho Hyun-Jae was puzzled.
At the last meeting between Kim Jong-Il and the forward army corps commanders in late November, intelligence reports had made it clear that the Americans weren’t planning to pull their forces out of the South until at least the next spring. Given that, Kim had agreed that Red Phoenix should be postponed until the next year. As a result, orders had been issued to slow down the troop redeployments, munitions stockpiling, and training exercises associated with the plan. They would continue, but at a slower, more relaxed pace less likely to unnecessarily alert the South’s puppet government.
Now, just two weeks later, came Kim Jong-Il’s urgent middle-of-the-night summons to Pyongyang, compelling Cho to take a hair-raising, mountain-hopping flight north strapped into the back seat of a MiG-19UTI trainer.
He had been met at the Pyongyang East military airfield by a plainclothes security detail and driven through the capital’s empty streets in a motorcycle-escorted black sedan. The quiet around him had made no impression on Cho. There were few vehicles, even in the daytime, for Pyongyang’s broad four-lane boulevards.
But the car hadn’t deposited him at Kim Jong-Il’s offices at Party Headquarters as usual. Instead it had turned into the underground garage beneath the Presidential Palace — a building reserved largely for ceremonial purposes. Cho’s disquiet had been increased by the sight of other parked staff cars in the garage, cars carrying the flags of almost every major military command in the Korean People’s Army. He’d wondered what the devil was going on. Some briefing connected with the attempted coup in the South?
Now, looking around the huge, marble-walled room at the other grim-faced men seated nearby, Cho began to doubt that initial assessment. The room was filled with top-ranking officers from every service, and entire General Staff, the National Defense Commission, and even the drab-suited members of the Party’s Central Committee and its Military Commission. It seemed unlikely that the nation’s entire top-level political-military apparatus would have been assembled at such short notice for a simple briefing.
He caught the eye of his counterpart at the V Army Corps and raised an eyebrow in a silent question. The man shrugged back, his face carefully expressionless beneath the savage scar left by an American bomb four decades before.
Martial music suddenly sounded over hidden loudspeakers, pulling Cho’s attention back to the small, raised dais flanked by giant-sized portraits of Kim Il-Sung and his son. The assembled officers and party leaders snapped to attention as the room’s main doors opened and Kim Jong-Il strode in to stand near the platform. He inclined his head slightly to acknowledge the salute and stood stiffly waiting, his eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance.
The blaring military march continued, and the Great Leader himself, Kim Il-Sung, came through the doors, moving slowly, haltingly. Cho stifled a gasp. The elder Kim had aged dramatically since his last appearance at the Party Congress. The news photos taken in recent months must have been retouched to conceal the new, deeply etched lines on the Leader’s face, his thinning white hair, and dark, shadowed eyes. Kim moved cautiously down the center aisle, stopping briefly to clasp hands with some of the men in the room. Always the old men, Cho noted.
When he reached the platform, Kim Jong-Il stepped forward to help his father up the low stairs to the microphone, the perfect picture of a devoted son. The elder Kim motioned his generals and party colleagues to their seats before speaking.
“Comrades!” The Great Leader’s voice was low, rasping as he read a prepared text without looking at his audience. “Comrades! The forces of history have created an opportunity for greatness. An opportunity for liberation. An opportunity we cannot afford to lose.”
Liberation? Cho glanced sharply at Kim Jong-Il. The man’s cold eyes were shielded by his thick glasses, but the general could sense the younger Kim’s smug sense of triumph.
“The corrupt puppet regime of the South is starting to crumble and its bandit military is crumbling with it. The people of the South are ready to rise against their oppressors. Accordingly, after careful consultation with the Military Commission of the Central Committee, I have decided to commit the armed might of the Democratic People’s Republic to a renewed revolutionary struggle to liberate the southern half of our beloved fatherland.”
Officers and party officials around the room stirred in their seats, thrown into consternation by the Great Leader’s words.
“To assure the unity of purpose and direction required by this historic decision, I am appointing the beloved Dear Leader, Kim Jong-Il, as acting chairman of the Military Commission. His authority is my authority. His voice is my voice.…” The elder Kim’s own voice trailed off into silence as he came to the end of his script. He stepped back from the microphones and glanced uncertainly at his son, who bowed and moved forward to take center stage.
“Comrades!” Kim Jong-Il’s voice was vibrant, assured, full of confidence. “I assure you that our Great Leader’s trust in me is not misplaced. Final victory is within our grasp. We have but to seize it.”
The younger Kim stopped, letting the silence build tension. Then he broke it. “Military operations against the South will commence at oh two hundred hours on the twenty-fifth of December. The plan will be Red Phoenix.
The excitement Cho had felt as Kim Jong-Il spoke suddenly flowed down his throat into an icy-cold spot in the pit of his stomach. A hasty attack? Eleven days to complete the planning and preparation for an operation recently postponed for at least a year? He stared at the younger Kim in shock. It could not be done.
Kim’s eyes met his briefly and roved on across the confounded leadership. “Comrades! Now is the time to strike hard and strike fast. Delay could be fatal. The puppet armies of the South are in disarray — torn by faction and mutiny. Their American masters are abandoning them. Already America’s air transports have been mobilized to speed their evacuation.”
Kim paused again, his eyes bright behind his lenses. “Comrades! The South is ours for the taking!”
Or so it appeared, he cautioned himself.
At first, the opportunity provided by this renegade fascist general and his attempted coup had seemed almost too good to be true. He’d been prepared to ignore the opening, preferring to wait until the American evacuation was complete. But then, as intelligence report after intelligence report showed confusion and dismay spreading throughout the South’s military, Kim Jong-Il had changed his mind. Such a chance might never come again in his lifetime. The enemy army would recover its morale in a few short months, and even without its American backers, it would remain a dangerous foe. Better to strike now, while the opening existed, than to wait for another chance that might never come.
Kim was all too aware that time was not on his side. His father was aging rapidly, and with each stage of the old man’s decline, Kim Jong-Il stood more exposed to his political enemies. Every instinct in him screamed for immediate action. The military situation was as good as it would ever get. The South’s puppet government was reeling, hammered hard by its supposed friends. And most importantly, his own survival might rest on a successful war that would bolster his authority as North Korea’s absolute ruler. It was enough. He had always been something of a gambler.
He stepped forward to the very edge of the dais. “Comrades! We stand on the brink of reunification with our brothers in the South. One sturdy push will smash the armies of our enemies into fragments — impotent fragments incapable of stopping the forces of history. Our forces!”
Cho saw Kim’s ey
es swing back to settle on him. He felt the force of the man’s personality, the power of his oratory, flowing across the room into his own body — reinfusing confidence where there had been doubt. Kim was right. The opening was there, waiting to be used. And they could be ready. Oh, it would be difficult. There could be no doubt of that. Schedules would have to be compressed, risks taken, perfection subordinated. But it could be done. Red Phoenix could be readied and launched by the twenty-fifth. Slowly Cho smiled — a smile he saw repeated on other faces across the room. It would be a fitting Christmas gift for the imperialists.
CHAPTER 19
The Dragon Stirs
DECEMBER 17 — KIMPO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, SOUTH KOREA
“Mr. Sik?”
The North Korean commando major turned to face the security man. “Yes?”
“Your papers are in order.” The South Korean held them out and gestured toward the baggage claim area. “Your luggage has also been cleared.”
“Thank you.” The major bowed, holding back a smile. Scorpion had been right. These fascists were so busy looking for traitors in their own military that their normal security measures had been relaxed. Now, with this last contingent flown in from Japan, his assault team was complete. And not one man had been picked up or even questioned by the authorities.
He moved past the checkpoint toward Baggage Claim through a crowd of Japanese businessmen. Not even a bloody coup attempt and continued riots could keep these capitalists away from their money-grubbing ways, he thought. Well, all that would soon change. Soon discipline, order, and unity would be restored to this weak-willed land. And they would be enforced by the North Korean Army.
The commando major picked up his bags and walked outside to call a cab. His men were assembling at a safehouse right in the heart of Seoul. And once there, they would wait for the orders that would unleash them. The major smiled openly now. He was ready.
DECEMBER 18 — KYONGBOK PALACE, SEOUL
There was almost no wind, which was a relief for Tony. He had been standing outside the Kyonghoe-Ru for almost twenty minutes. It was cold, a few degrees below freezing, and a light snow had begun to fall. Of course, he had arrived early. As it was, the snow softened the cold and made it just crisp, instead of raw.
The Kyonghoe-Ru was a centuries-old meeting hall on the grounds of the Kyongbok Palace. Sitting in the middle of a now-frozen artificial lake, it was reached by one of three graceful stone bridges on the eastern shore.
Tony walked a beat up and down the eastern side of the building, both for warmth and to keep a lookout to the north and south. The lake lay to the west, so she would not come from that direction.
The building was two stories high, but the bottom floor was open, supporting the upper with forty-eight stone pillars. The building was covered with beautiful ornate carvings, and perched on the edges of the roof were chapsang, “ridge beasts,” guardians too intent on their task to brush off the dusting of snow.
The snow continued to fall gently, muffling traffic noises. It also hid objects in the distances, softening outlines and washing out colors. The few people visiting the palace today were indistinct forms, moving quickly from one building to another.
He saw her coming down the mall from the east. Her red hair was a spot of color in the snow. She wore a long green coat and brown leather boots, both trimmed with fur. Moving quickly, she seemed sure of her destination.
Tony stood by the shelter of the hall until she was closer, then walked toward the center span of the bridge and waved.
Anne waved back, smiling, and ran to the east end of the center bridge. Suddenly she stopped, looked left and right, considering. She walked over to the end of the left-hand bridge, and Tony followed, waiting by the western end. She waited until he had stopped, waiting for her, then ran to the far span on the right.
Tony looked at her, shook his head, and trudged somewhat theatrically to a point opposite her. He stood there, arms crossed, waiting for her next move, and she walked over as if nothing had happened.
When she reached his side, he took her hand and they walked silently under the sheltering overhang of the roof. Her shoulders were sprinkled with snowflakes, and ones that had landed on her hair had melted to small, clear drops of water. They hugged, and she allowed him to kiss her once.
She looked at his leather flight jacket and gloves. “Aren’t you cold?” Frowning, she reached out and held a hand over his bright-red ear. “It’s like ice.”
As she looked him over, she spotted a package he was trying to conceal. It was gift-wrapped, and as soon as he realized his efforts were in vain, he handed it to her.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t get yours yet. I won’t have it until our date on Christmas Eve.” She looked at it and then at Tony. “Can I open it now?”
“Yes. Go ahead. It’s very appropriate.”
He leaned against a pillar and watched as she tore open the package and opened the box. Inside was a scarf covered with green and silver dragons.
“Tony, it’s beautiful!” She ran up and hugged him, then shook her hair to get most of the water droplets off. She tied the scarf over her head and announced, “Now I’m ready for the weather! Thank you, Tony.”
“Well, it wasn’t much.” He’d only spent his last day off canvassing Kunsan from one end to the other, but he wasn’t going to tell her that.
“I hope you like mine as much as I like this.” She was running her hands over the soft fabric. “I haven’t known you long enough to know what you like.”
“Don’t worry, Anne, there will be other Christmas presents.”
“Yes, there will.”
He took her hand and they started on their way.
DECEMBER 24 — THE LIBERATION TUNNEL, NEAR THE DMZ, NORTH KOREA
The blacked-out train groaned to a slow, shuddering stop inside the tunnel entrance. Dim lights came on as a massive blast door slid across the tracks — sealing it away from the outside air.
The train had come down from the north, moving slowly under a rising moon. Never hurrying. Never racing around curves, through villages, or across mountain bridges. Doing nothing that would call attention to itself or to its cargo. At last it had come gliding down from the hills into this huge, steel- and concrete-faced cavern.
The blast door locked in place across the tunnel mouth and bright arc lights flared to illuminate the cavern. Shrill whistles blew, and uniformed men moved under shouted orders to unload the train’s hidden cargo. Some worked in teams to yank aside heavy tarpaulins concealing squat T-55 and T-62 tanks loaded on flatcars. Others slammed boxcar doors open to get at the artillery shells, mortar bombs, and small arms ammunition stacked inside.
No delay could be tolerated. There were deadlines to be met, schedules to be kept. This last train had to be back on its normal route long before the next imperialist spy satellite swung high overhead to spy on the fatherland.
Other soldiers carrying AKM assault rifles, RPK light machine guns, and full combat packs poured out of the passenger cars just behind the engine. They wore the shoulder flashes of the 4th Guards Division. Some carried bulky, Soviet-made SA-7 SAM launchers slung across their backs. Every man’s pockets and pack bulged with extra ammo clips, rations, and grenades. As they jumped down out of the cars, officers formed them into ranks and led them away down a long, darkened corridor stretching south.
Heading into the darkness beyond the train, the marching men tramped past row after row of camouflaged tanks, M-1974 self-propelled guns, and tracked BMP and wheeled BTR-60 troop carriers parked in the main corridor and in large galleries off to both sides. Small groups of leather-helmeted tank crewmen and steel-helmeted infantrymen were clustered around officers giving final briefings and exhortations. A heavy, almost intoxicating, mix of diesel fumes and engine exhaust hung in the air, stirred only faintly by ventilating fans spaced at fifty-meter intervals along the high, arching roof.
The main corridor stretched for more than three kilometers, cut straight through the east-wes
t ridge marking North Korea’s side of the Demilitarized Zone. It came to an abrupt end at another massive blast door, and the column turned left into a side passage leading to another, much narrower tunnel continuing south — under the DMZ.
This tunnel sloped downward and it grew darker with each step forward. Their officers now led with flashlights to show the way. The air grew thicker, and the noise behind them fell away — sinking to a dull, murmuring mix of voices, clanking tank treads, and idling engines. The men in front could see lights bobbing up and down ahead down the corridor. Officers went down the column whispering harsh warnings about the need for silence.
Finally the column halted at the foot of a long, gently sloping ramp leading up — up toward the surface. Up toward the enemy. Sweating combat engineers were manhandling jury-rigged blast doors into place, and far ahead, at the very end of the tunnel, the assault troops could see other engineers moving with careful precision to place explosive charges against the roof.
It was nearly time.
Time for war.
CHAPTER 20
Decapitation
DECEMBER 25 — COMBINED FORCES COMMANDER’S RESIDENCE, YONGSAN SOUTH POST, SEOUL
PFC Williams was bored. Bored and cold and dead-tired. He yawned, his breath visible in the chilly night air, and tried to shift the M16 slung over his shoulder into a more comfortable position. The rifle wasn’t that heavy, but after several hours of walking a sentry beat it was starting to dig into his back whenever he turned to make another circuit of his post.
The private stopped at the edge of the brick wall and stared out toward the Itaewon district just beyond the compound. He could almost hear snatches of off-key Christmas carols mixed with off-color rock-and-roll favorites drifting out of the bars. Of all the rotten luck. Pulling guard duty on Christmas Eve. And right when HQ had finally lifted its restrictions on GIs going off-post.