by Larry Bond
The head of the KGB locked his gaze on the other man. “Indeed, my friend, Kim Jong-Il’s requests must be met. The war is too evenly balanced for any other decision.”
“But the Politburo will vacillate. It may take days to make our ‘colleagues’ see reason on this matter. And such a delay could be fatal to our cause.”
The defense minister’s assertion hung unchallenged in the air. At last the KGB director nodded his agreement.
The minister smiled and directed his colleague’s attention to a single sheet of paper resting on the low table between them. “I am glad you see the need for swift action, Viktor Ivanovitch. I have prepared an order that should satisfy the most urgent of friend Kim’s needs. Read it.”
The other man did so and sat back in his chair, a faintly troubled look on his face. “You’re quite sure, comrade, that this order can be kept, ah, confidential?”
The defense minister laced his fingers across his stomach and nodded solemnly. “Without a doubt.” He reached across the table and tapped the piece of paper. “Should matters go awry, this can be denied. Whatever happens can be explained away as a tragic accident of positioning.”
“And the planes?”
“Unfortunately, we cannot hope to handle that so… discreetly. The movement of whole squadrons of our finest combat aircraft will be a much more, ah, public, matter. No, I fear the decision will have to be left in the full Politburo’s hands.”
“And this?” The KGB director’s beefy forefinger touched the sheet of paper.
“It will be transmitted to Fleet Headquarters in Vladivostok within the hour.”
Each man raised his glass to the other and then downed it with a single gulp.
THE WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM, WASHINGTON, D.C.
Only the slide projector’s whirring fan cut through the silence. The two photographs shown side by side were remarkably sharp and full of detail, especially when one remembered that they had been taken by a satellite more than two hundred miles above the earth and moving at more than seventeen thousand miles an hour.
“All right, Blake. What’s your interpretation of these pictures?” The President’s voice sounded loud in the darkness. “Hell, I’ll admit that they just look like a couple of trains to me.”
Blake Fowler shook his head and then remembered that nobody could see the gesture. “Not a couple of trains, Mr. President. One train.”
“Explain.”
“The first slide, the one on the left, shows a loaded Chinese munitions train sitting in the railyards at Pyongyang. And the second slide, the one on the right shows that same train, still fully loaded, heading back across the border into Manchuria.”
“So what?” Putnam didn’t bother trying to hide the contempt in his voice. Blake’s growing intimacy with the President had rubbed his ego raw. “One lousy train goes back to China. Why bother showing us that?”
“Because, sir, that train crossed the border seven days ago. And we haven’t spotted a single shipment of Chinese arms or ammunition in North Korea since. My analysts and I believe that what we are seeing is a de facto withdrawal of the PRC’s covert support for the North Korean invasion.” Blake drew a breath. “And we believe that could offer us a chance to dramatically shift the balance of forces against the North Koreans.” He stopped.
The President’s voice showed more interest. “Go on, Blake.”
“If the Chinese have stopped their support, there must have been a falling out between them and the North Koreans, maybe temporary, maybe permanent. If the Chinese don’t regard Kim as their friend anymore, we may be able to move in.”
“What’ve you got in mind?”
“An overture to the Chinese, sir. An appeal for their aid in bringing this war to a close on acceptable terms.”
Putnam snorted derisively. “Jesus Christ, Fowler! You expect us to go begging hat in hand to the PRC? And then you expect them to just see the light and join the side of the angels?”
Blake felt himself flushing with anger. “No, I don’t. But I do expect the Chinese government to act in what it perceives as its own best interest. And I believe that we can convince them that lies in our corner.”
“How?”
“By offering them a free-trade agreement, loans, credits, and the kind of defensive military technologies they need — sophisticated surface-to-air missiles and antitank guided missiles.”
Several of the men and women in the darkened Situation Room tried to speak at the same time, but the President’s voice overrode the others. “Have you approached the South Koreans about this proposal?”
“Only at the staff level, Mr. President. Nothing higher than that.”
“I see.” Blake could see the outline of the President’s face in the ghostly glow given off by the slide projector, but he couldn’t read the Chief Executive’s expression. “What about the timing on this thing? We can’t go to Beijing while we’re still losing. George is right on that. It would look like we’re begging.”
“Agreed, sir. That’s why we’re suggesting that State, Treasury, Commerce, and Defense all develop the specifics necessary while we await results from Thunderbolt. If General McLaren’s plan succeeds, we’ve got the base we need to approach the Chinese.”
The President nodded and shifted slightly in his seat, turning to face the secretary of state. “Okay, Paul. What’s your reading on Blake’s idea? Go or no go?”
Bannerman looked carefully from one man to the other, ignoring Putnam’s insistent tug on his sleeve. He’d seen the signs of the shifting power base in the White House long ago. The secretary of state cleared his throat and spoke. “I fully concur with Dr. Fowler’s plan, Mr. President. I think it offers the best chance we’re going to get to keep this war from escalating beyond our control.”
The President nodded abruptly. “Okay, then. Blake, put your proposal in writing and have it on my desk by tomorrow morning. Then we can kick it around a little while we wait to see whether or not this Thunderbolt works.” He looked at his watch. “Now, you’ll have to forgive me, ladies and gentlemen, but I’ve go to run. Got a photo opportunity with the Boy Scout of the Year to take care of.” He paused, a cynical grin twisted on his face. “As you know, the business of government never ends.”
The NSC Crisis Team rose with him and remained standing while he left the room.
JANUARY 12 — ECHO COMPANY, NEAR THE CENTER OF TAEJON
Kevin coughed and felt the thick, acrid smoke eddying through the room burn deep into his lungs. He rubbed his watering eyes and cursed softly. There wasn’t anywhere you could go to escape the smoke — not when the whole damned city was on fire. He scuttled over to where Montoya squatted, keeping low to avoid showing himself through the sandbagged window.
“India One Two, this is Echo Five Six, India One Two, this is Echo Five Six. Over.” The RTO took his finger off the transmit button and shrugged helplessly. “Nothing. I can’t get nothing, L-T Probably too many buildings in the way.”
Kevin nodded his understanding. Snarled communications were the rule when fighting in a city. Or so the manual said. The low-powered FM tactical sets issued for battalion, company, and platoon use needed good lines of sight to work, and good lines of sight were impossible to come by in Taejon’s concrete jungle of apartment complexes, department stores, and other high-rise buildings.
He spread the tourist map of the city he’d picked up at Battalion HQ only hours before and started reviewing his company’s defensive positions. He had minutes at most to make sure there wasn’t anything he’d overlooked — some fatal weakness that the North Koreans could exploit. The last word from Major Donaldson had been that the South Korean Reserve units holding on Taejon’s outskirts had been overrun. The NKs were on their way and could be expected at any moment. Kevin concentrated on the symbols sketched on the map.
Echo Company held a cluster of buildings on the southern side of Chungang-ro — Chungang Street — Taejon’s main east-west boulevard. Corporal McIntyre and 1st Platoon an
chored the company’s right flank from a three-story apartment building with a view north along Inhyo Street. Kevin had put his CP there since it offered the best view. The three half-strength squads of Sergeant Geary’s 2nd Platoon were stationed in small shops along the center of the position. And Rhee’s 3rd Platoon, the KATUSAs, occupied buildings looking northwest — out over an open plaza built across the frozen Taejonchon River. Kevin frowned. He’d hoped to occupy the Chungang Department Store, right across the street from Rhee’s position, but he hadn’t had enough troops. Now it stood empty, available as a fire base for the first North Korean infantry to come along. In the limited time available, his men had only been able to liberally scatter a selection of explosive booby traps throughout the department store. That would slow the NKs, but it sure wouldn’t stop them.
Two of the battalion’s remaining companies were also on the line. Matuchek’s Alpha Company held the left flank, dug in from the river to past some place called the Dabinchi Night Club. Bravo Company held the right, in a position centered on the Taejon Railway Station. The other provisional unit, Foxtrot Company, was stationed to the rear as the battalion reserve and quick-reaction force.
Other infantry battalions stretched to either side across the city — a grab bag of assorted American and South Korean units, all worn down by weeks of near-continuous fighting. Kevin shook his head wearily. The scattergun briefing he’d gotten before moving Echo up to the line had shown the better part of three North Korean divisions moving toward Taejon — two infantry and one tank. So they’d be outnumbered by at least four or five to one. He wasn’t sure they could hold against those kind of odds, no matter how many times the rear-area brass said that Taejon would never be surrendered. Slogans like “They shall not pass” might sound inspiring to civilian ears, but the front-line combat soldier knew who paid the price for such fine phrases.
“Hey, L-T,” Montoya whispered, “OP Seven reports NK tanks and infantry moving down the street. Company strength.” He paused, listening, and then went on. “Six has movement, too. Another NK company at least. They wanna know what they should do.”
Kevin moved toward the window. “Tell ’em both to hang tight and stay out of sight.” He rose slowly to his knees, bringing his eyes just above the windowsill. “Contact the platoons and make sure they know not to fire until I give the word, understood?”
“Gotcha, L-T” Montoya started whispering softly into his handset, relaying his instructions.
Kevin stared out the window, watching for the oncoming North Korean columns. He heard them first. A low, persistent rumbling that expanded suddenly into squealing tank treads, the roar of diesel engines, and the tramp of marching feet. Shapes appeared at the edge of his vision.
ASSAULT GROUP 2, 1ST BATTALION, 27TH INFANTRY REGIMENT
Captain Kang Chae-Jin swore as he slipped on a patch of ice left unmelted in the road. He recovered and kept moving, angling slightly to stay right behind the third of the three T-55 tanks assigned to his company.
He looked up at the buildings rising to either side and frowned. Urban fighting doctrine said that tank platoons should advance in a triangular formation, with one tank moving down the middle of the street, while the other two stayed behind and to the flanks, covering the leader. But doctrine didn’t say what to do when the street was too narrow for such a formation, so Kang had been forced to adopt an untested compromise. One of his three infantry platoons led the way, assault rifles held at the ready. They were followed by the three T-55s, trundling along in column, and then by the Assault Group’s two remaining infantry platoons.
“Comrade Captain?” Lieutenant Sohn, the commander of his 1st Platoon, had dropped back from the lead column.
“Yes?”
Sohn tilted his helmet back a bit and pointed forward. “We’re coming to a major cross-street. What are your ord — ”
The lieutenant’s question was drowned out by a sudden, echoing crash of small-arms fire, grenades, and tank cannon from off to the left.
Kang threw himself face forward onto the pavement and screamed, “Take cover!”
ECHO COMPANY
“Goddamnit!” Kevin slammed a fist into the wall beside the window as he watched North Korean foot soldiers scatter out of the street into houses and buildings. In another thirty seconds his men would have been able to catch the NKs in the open and slaughter them. But other enemy units had run head-on into Bravo Company first — spoiling what would have been a letter-perfect ambush.
“L-T, Rhee says he’s got people moving into the department store across from him. He wants permission to fire.”
“Granted. But Third Platoon only.”
Montoya repeated that into his handset and machine guns chattered off to the right as Rhee’s men opened up. The sound of more shooting rose from beyond the river, near Alpha Company’s positions. Maybe. He was starting to lose track of sounds as they bounced around in Taejon’s streets and as the discordant mix of artillery, small-arms, and support weapons reached mind-numbing proportions.
He risked another glance out the window and then ducked back. The North Korean footsloggers he’d seen had gone to ground in buildings or sheltered doorways, but their three tanks still sat arrogantly in the middle of a north-south street intersecting Chungang-ro, turrets whining as they swiveled back and forth, searching for targets. Those three tanks had to go. His troops could handle NK infantry, but those T-55s could use point-black fire to smash every defensive position he had. So they had to be destroyed. But how?
Kevin mentally estimated ranges. The NK tanks were within sixty to a hundred meters. Too close for Dragon missiles — they needed to fly at least twice that distance before they could really be guided. But the LAWs carried by his men were a different story. LAWs were ordinarily useless against heavily armored main battle tanks. When fired from an upper-story window or roof, though, they could easily penetrate a tank’s thin top armor.
He got to his feet and ran up the apartment building’s central staircase to the third floor.
Several men in the 1st Platoon were equipped with LAWs, and every one of them professed an eagerness to be the first to “bag” his own tank. Kevin picked three of them and deployed them in separate rooms — one to a window.
He took a deep breath and then yelled, “Now! Now! Now! Fire ’em up!”
The 1st Platoon’s machine gun teams and riflemen cut loose with a wild, clattering roar, sweeping the windows and doorways of the buildings across the street, trying to suppress any North Koreans who’d already gotten into position to fire back. At the same moment the three soldiers carrying LAWs stood up, aimed, and fired.
Two of the three rockets found their targets. One hit the lead T-55 squarely atop its turret, tore through, and exploded inside the crew compartment. The other pierced the second T-55’s fuel tank and turned it into a flaming wreck. The third LAW missed. Fired high, it clipped the T-55’s radio antenna and slammed into a doorway, mangling two North Korean infantrymen crouching there.
The surviving tank’s main gun fired back, and Kevin caught a split-second glimpse of an eerie orange sunburst emerging from the flames enveloping the second T-55.
CRACK. KARUMMPP! He felt the building rock back as the shell hit and exploded. Bricks cascaded out into the street, dust choked the air, and agonized screams drifted up from below.
Kevin grabbed the nearest soldier with another LAW and pulled him over to the window. “Get that son of a bitch before he shoots again!”
The man braced and aimed, but he didn’t fire. “It’s gone, L-T. It beat feet!”
Kevin looked for himself. The T-55 wasn’t where it had been. Oily, black smoke pouring out of the two dead tanks made it difficult to see, but he could hear treads squealing on the pavement. They were growing fainter.
ASSAULT GROUP 2
Huddled in a bullet-pocked doorway, Lieutenant Sohn stared in shock at the thin wash of blood-red flesh and crushed bone that had been his company commander. The retreating T-55 had backed ri
ght over Kang without even pausing, and Sohn could still hear the captain’s last faint, gurgling scream as he’d gone under the tank tread.
He retched, then winced as another stream of American bullets stitched across the edge of the doorway, spraying tiny slivers of concrete into his cheek. The sudden, stinging pain helped clear his brain and reminded him of one of war’s cardinal lessons: First you survive. You can mourn the dead later.
The lieutenant pushed himself farther back into cover and deliberately looked away from what was left of Kang. He was in command now, and it was up to him to bring some order out of the mess he could hear and see around him.
Some of his men had gotten into buildings facing the American positions and were firing back. But others were acting as uselessly as he was himself — pinned down behind the first available cover. That would have to be changed, and quickly. Sohn wiped the vomit off his chin and ignored the blood dripping from his cheek. Then he rose and dashed forward into the smoke to rally his troops.
JANUARY 13 — ECHO COMPANY, NEAR THE CENTER OF TAEJON
Rhee’s voice was calm and came across the static-laden radio channel clearly. “We’re taking heavy fire now from the department store and from houses across the street.”
Kevin closed his eyes involuntarily as another flare burst high overhead. Its harsh, white light threw strange shadows racing across shattered buildings and rubble-strewn streets. Rifle and machine gun fire crackled nearby.
“Casualties?”
“Very heavy.” There was a muffled, crashing sound, and Rhee stopped talking momentarily. When he came back on, Kevin could hear moaning in the background. “They’re using RPGs against our firing slits. These communists are not being very sportsmanlike.”
“Can you hold?”
Rhee sounded confident. “As long as we have ammunition. It would help, though, if we could get an artillery mission against the department store.”
Kevin sighed and pressed the transmit button. “I’ve tried, Rhee, but Battalion says no way. There’re too many civies still left in the city.” The rules of engagement were firm. American artillery would not be used where friendly civilians were at risk.