by Larry Bond
He shifted his rifle again. Boy, this was really stupid. Walking a beat like this didn’t make sense. Not anymore. Not with all this high-tech stuff the Army could lay its hands on. Why didn’t they just rig a few low-light TV cameras to cover the perimeter and let somebody sit somewhere nice and warm to watch them?
He came to the end of another circuit and started back the other way, cursing softly under his breath and leaving a fine mist floating in the air behind him. He wanted to go someplace and get warm, but with his luck that’d be the one time the sarge checked upon him. And then he’d wind up pulling guard duty on New Year’s Eve, too. Instead, Williams decided that he definitely, definitely wasn’t going to reenlist. He’d put in the rest of his time in this man’s Army and then he’d head back home — back to Seattle. He started imagining what he’d do first in civilian life. First, sleep for a week. No interruptions. No reveille. Nothing. Then he’d find a girl and …
Williams never heard the soft, warning scrape on the wall behind him. The last things he felt were strong arms pulling him backward, and then something terribly cold and sharp sawing at his throat.
The North Korean commando major lowered the American’s body to the ground, knelt beside it, and wiped the man’s blood off on his dead back. He snapped his fingers twice, signaling the rest of his men forward over the wall. They made it without raising any alarm and dropped softly one by one beside him, fanning out in a half-circle while unslinging their submachine guns.
The major smiled to himself. This was going to be even easier than it had been in rehearsal. The mission planners had been right. The Americans were fast asleep, caught napping because they’d chosen to celebrate this bourgeois holiday.
His sergeant crouched next to him and held out a clenched fist. The team was in. They’d cut right through perimeter security without any problem. Now they had to find their targets and strike fast and strike hard.
The North Korean scanned the mostly darkened compound around him, trying to compare it with the maps and photos he’d studied back at Special Forces HQ in Kaesong. Ah, there it was. He pointed the house out to his sergeant, who nodded. The major smiled again in anticipation. In the next five minutes they were going to win a war that hadn’t even started yet. And they were going to do it with a few carefully placed knife thrusts and gunshots. The liquidation of the American butcher McLaren and his senior command staff would plunge the imperialist forces into confusion — confusion that would aid the first waves of the Great Fatherland Liberation Force now sweeping forward to the attack.
He rose to his feet and gestured his men forward toward the darkened house on a low hill. They stood, slung their automatic weapons again, and followed him at a trot. Each man carried a razor-edged commando knife ready for instant use. This was to be a silent killing — silent at any rate until the first Americans managed to raise an alarm.
DECEMBER 25 — COMBINED FORCES COMMANDER’S QUARTERS
McLaren paused by the window in his darkened study. He drew on his cigar, brightening the slow-burning tip momentarily, and looked out across the base without seeing much of anything. For once he was content just to stand still, to relax, to savor the slightly acrid taste of the cigar. Better make this one last, Jack boy, he told himself. This is it for another year.
The doctors had warned him to cut down. Cancer. Emphysema. None of those words had held much fear for McLaren — not after the corpse-strewn battlefields he’d seen in Vietnam. And cancer, well, cancer had taken his wife from him, and she’d never smoked a day in her life. But he’d followed their advice; pressure from his daughter had seen to that. Over the years he’d worked himself down to this one cigar, a cigar he reserved as a sort of Christmas present to all his old vices.
He sucked in reflectively, held the smoke for a moment, and blew it out, forming a perfect circle. It floated up past the window and McLaren’s eyes followed it. He used to keep his children quiet for an hour or more just watching him do that. The thought saddened him. It had been a long time since they’d had the whole family together. Not since Elly’s funeral in fact. He pushed the memory away.
He had hoped to see his daughter for the holidays this year, but the events of the last few weeks had persuaded him to have her cancel the trip out from Washington.
McLaren drew on the cigar again and blew another smoke ring. But this time his eyes followed it only halfway up the window. He froze. There were men moving out there — black-clad men slipping from building to building, working their way in from the perimeter. They were coming toward him.
His mind came awake. He’d seen men moving like that before. Sliding from shadow to shadow with speed and in silence. Cong assault teams crossing the fields outside his battalion’s firebase to wreak havoc on the sleeping Americans. Rangers and LRRPs crawling through the jungle to repay the favor. SAS men putting on a counterterrorism demonstration. Only this wasn’t Vietnam and it wasn’t a demonstration. He came out of his trance. Don’t just sit there, dumbshit, move! He grabbed for the desk phone and stubbed his cigar out.
“Sir?” The operator’s voice was drowsy.
“Security.” McLaren lifted the phone off the desk and crouched down. No point in making himself a bigger target than necessary. He wished that he’d thought to keep a personal weapon in this room instead of upstairs in his bedroom.
He heard the phone ringing in the base security office. Once. Twice. Three times. Answer the phone, goddamnit.
“Security. Captain Miller.” The man sounded out of breath and more than a little irate.
“McLaren here.” He could almost hear the man coming to attention. “I want a full alert. Now. Total illumination of the compound. This is not a drill, Captain. We’ve got intruders on base and you can assume I’m a priority target.”
He could hear Miller starting to gobble something at him, but he cut him off. “I don’t have time to chat, Captain. I’ve got a situation here. Carry out your goddamned orders!”
He could see a small group of men gathering across the way. They were now less than fifty yards from his quarters. They’d surround the house, of course, and trying to make a break for it would be suicidal. McLaren had no doubt that these guys would be the first team. He could surprise one or two of them, maybe, but his only hope would be a quick response by the security team he’d formed two years ago to deal with just this kind of attack.
McLaren’s mind was racing. There’d be no way his men could possibly respond to the alert in anything less than a minute or two. Plenty of time for the NKs or whoever it was outside to make an initial attack. He had to find a place to hide. Someplace that would give him an edge in this first combat. Jesus, ain’t this the way of the world. Make it to army commander and find yourself scrabbling around in the dark worrying about men with knives.
McLaren left the phone lying off the hook on the floor and scuttled out of the room toward the stairs leading up to his bedroom. He took them two at a tie, trying hard to make as little noise as possible. At the top of the landing he dropped to his stomach again and reached up to turn the doorknob, pulled the bedroom door open just wide enough to slide through, and then pulled it closed again. Staying well out of the line of sight from the window, he crawled over to the plain old army footlocker he kept beneath his bed.
Time. Damn it, he needed more time. Those bastards outside were almost certainly on the way. Where the hell were Miller and his security team?
McLaren fumbled for a second with the catch but then got it open. He felt around inside the locker, ignoring the pistol and the M16. This was going to be close-in fighting. Down-and-dirty stuff. His hands found a familiar shape — a Mossberg 500 shotgun — and slid it carefully out of the retaining straps. It was already loaded. Strictly against regulations of course, and against every principle of weapons safety. But McLaren had always thought that if he needed this thing, he’d need it damned quick, with no time to waste. He grimaced. Well, by God, he’d been right about that.
Maybe a minute had gone
by now. No time to waste. McLaren got carefully to his feet and slid around the room, staying out of the half-light pouring in through the window. He found the right ceiling panel, climbed onto a chair, levered it aside, and pulled himself up and through into a small windowless attic. He rolled away from the opening and lay still for a moment, trying not to pant for air. Jesus Christ, he thought, I’m getting too old for this shit.
The sirens going off outside made him jump. McLaren rose to a half-crouch and cradled the shotgun. Captain Miller had finally managed to get the alarm out. Well, good. The combination of bright arc lights flaring all over the base and ear-splitting sirens screaming would almost certainly throw the NKs into some confusion. Trouble was, they’d also redouble their efforts to get him before someone else got them. And they wouldn’t waste time in being fancy about it.
He was right. McLaren heard the glass in his bedroom window shatter and saw a small round object sail in to land squarely on his bed. He threw himself flat away from the opening as the grenade went off with a thunderous WHUMP. The shock wave bounced him an inch or so off the attic floor and then back down. Smoke and dust swirled in the air.
He pulled himself across to look down into his bedroom just as a North Korean commando rolled in from the doorway and opened up with his submachine gun, shredding the tattered, burning fragments of bedding with a hail of soft-nosed bullets. When the man stopped firing and started forward to check his target, McLaren braced the shotgun, aimed, and pulled the trigger. The blast threw the North Korean back in a welter of blood and killed him instantly.
McLaren rolled hastily away from the hole as bullets fired blindly from below tore through in a cloud of splinters. Shit, there were others down there. He lay flat against one side of the attic and kept his shotgun trained on the opening. He’d send the first NK through to hell. They’d have a hard time getting at him. Unless …
McLaren didn’t waste time completing the thought. The grenade bounced in and rolled toward him just as he twisted round to get his feet in front of him. He kicked out desperately and connected, sending the grenade skittering away back down through the open ceiling panel. He heard screams as it went off and hunched himself back even farther into the narrow gap between the roof and the attic floor.
He could hear firing off in the distance.
DECEMBER 25 — YONGSAN ARMY BASE, SEOUL
The North Korean major crouched behind a parked Hyundai and feverishly snapped a new magazine into his submachine gun. Bullets spanged off the metal chassis and whined away into the air. He finished reloading, looked over at the man next to him, and jerked his head toward the direction of the fire. They both jumped to their feet and sent precise three-round bursts crashing in through the windows of the barracks just ten yards away. Broken glass cascaded out onto the snow-covered lawn.
Moans coming from a tangle of half-dressed bodies sprawled in an open doorway attracted the major’s attention, and he fired another burst into them. The moans stopped.
He heard a muffled explosion from behind him and smiled exultantly. That would be his assault team finishing off the American general. Someone had raised the alarm, but it hadn’t mattered at all. If anything, it was making their job even easier. All over the compound, half-drunk and half-asleep Americans had rushed out to see what was happening, and they’d walked right into the deadly crossfires laid down by his men.
The major pulled another magazine out of his belt and wished they’d been able to carry more. He wanted to kill more Americans. This was like slaughtering sheep.
Suddenly the man crouching next to him grunted and fell over onto him as bullets scythed along the side of the car. Shit. The major rolled out from under the body and lay sighting back the way the bullets had come. He could see helmeted troops advancing up the street, ducking from car to parked car as they moved toward him. Americans who’d broken past his flank guards.
The major edged away from them around the rear bumper of the car he’d been using for cover. He popped up and fired a quick burst before dropping back down. The Americans flopped to the ground, pinned down by his fire. He grinned. Now for a quick dash away from the car and into the darkness. This was the kind of cat-and-mouse fighting he’d trained for. The imperialists wouldn’t even know what had hit them. He got to his feet to run.
Corporal Hughes saw the movement up ahead and lifted the fiberglass-tubed LAW he carried to his shoulder. He squeezed the trigger and closed his eyes against the backblast.
Some instinct made the North Korean commando leader turn his head to look just as the sixty-six-millimeter light antitank rocket slammed into the passenger side of the Hyundai and exploded. Flame sheeted over him, but fast-moving steel and fiberglass fragments killed him before he had the chance to scream.
The Americans clambered to their feet and continued to advance, ignoring the smoking corpse that had been tossed out into the middle of the road.
DECEMBER 25 — COMBINED FORCES COMMANDER’S QUARTERS
He had dust in his eyes and throat now.
McLaren didn’t know how much time had passed since the last grenade had gone off. But it didn’t matter. All that did matter was that they hadn’t tried anything for a while and it was making him nervous.
The alert sirens had stopped, and he could hear more firing off in the distance. Then a series of muffled, coughing explosions. Some of it seemed to be moving closer. He stayed silent and kept his eyes on the opening.
More gunfire from below. Heavier sounding than the SMG fire that had ripped up the attic floor and shredded his bed.
He heard feet clattering up the stairs.
“General?” An American-sounding voice. But was it a trick to get him to reveal his position? He brought the shotgun up again.
“General, this is Sergeant Corey. The house is secure, sir. Mackerel Six.”
McLaren started to relax. Corey was one of his security team people and he’d used the right codeword. “Coming down, Sergeant. Shark Seven.”
He crawled over and swung himself out and down through the open ceiling panel. Corey and two of his troopers were there in full gear, weapons out, and their faces were drawn and tight. One of them was shaking almost uncontrollably. McLaren ignored that. He looked around the room. The acrid smell of burning cloth and charred flesh was stronger, and he could see blood spattered across the walls. Two dead Koreans in black camouflage gear lay crumpled on the floor — one near the door where McLaren’s shotgun blast had thrown him and the other half-entangled in the burning bed, killed by his own grenade.
He swung back to face the sergeant. “What’s the situation?”
Corey’s eyes came back into focus. “We think we’ve got most of them, sir. There’s three more dead downstairs where we got ’em as we came in. Others outside.” He stopped, seemed at a loss for words.
“Go on, Sergeant.” McLaren kept his voice as gentle as he could. Corey had never been in combat before.
“I’ve lost a lot of my boys, General. Captain Miller’s dead. Took a round in the head as we set off. I lost more out there. Kip. Mike Andrews. A lot.” McLaren could see the tears in his eyes.
He reached out and put a hand on Corey’s shoulder. “You did real well, Sergeant. I want you to know that.” He looked around the shattered room. “Now let’s get the fuck out of here over to the Ops Room. This ain’t the end of it. Not by a long shot.”
The arc-lit compound outside looked as though it had gone through a full-scale pitched battle. McLaren could see bodies dotting the snow-covered walkways and parade grounds. Some were surrounded by clusters of medics and stretcher bearers, but others, too many others, were simply being covered with white sheets. He shook his head wearily. They’d been caught flat-footed and a lot of his men had already paid for it. Smoke from a burning building somewhere off out of sight drifted south, pushed by the north wind.
The Operations Room was in complete chaos when McLaren came in through the door. Half-dressed staff officers crowded the room, each trying to do two
or three things at once. Some were slapping situation maps up on the walls and ripping them down almost as fast. Others were standing around in small groups, demanding in loud, high-pitched voices to know just what the hell was going on. He scowled. These idiots were going to have to learn how to act calmly during a crisis. He looked around for his aide and found him standing in one corner working to sort things out.
Hansen put down the phone he’d been holding. “Glad to see you’re all right, General.”
“Yeah. Me, too.” He could feel himself starting to shake. Always happened after a fight. “Did they hit anything else?”
Hansen nodded. “Just got the word. They got into the Signals Room before the alarm went out. Killed everyone in there with knives or their bare hands. And then they blew the shit out of our commo gear. Major Gunderson said to tell you that they’re routing our traffic through the Navy until we can get spares set up out of storage.”
“That it?”
“No way, General.” Hansen pointed to another map just going up. It was a map of Seoul dotted with hastily drawn red circles. “Each one of those dots represents a reported terrorist or commando attack. All carried out in the last half hour.”
“Jesus.” McLaren whistled softly. He stepped forward to get a better look. “Give me the details.”
Hansen flipped through his scribbled notes. “Okay. First, an attack on our embassy.” He looked somber. “They broke past the marine guards and killed the ambassador, his family, and a lot of the senior staff. There’s still fighting going on, but it’s just a mop-up operation now.”
McLaren could feel himself growing cold as Hansen’s recitation continued. A raid on the South Korean Ministry of Defense. The main Seoul telephone exchange blown up. Senior government officials murdered in their own homes, including a South Korean corps commander and several Air Force generals. Only one conclusion fit the pattern he could see developing.