Bidding War td-101

by Warren Murphy

  "They must know something we don't. Where's that field phone?"

  The bulky instrument hit Hornworks's meaty paw with a hearty smack.

  "Hello. Get me Intelligence." The line crackled. "What the hell is going on up there in the North?"

  "Nothing, sir. Why—"

  "The South Koreans are moving into preinvasion positions. Why don't we know about it?"

  "They're pretty upset, as you know, that we're talking to the North."

  "Don't give me that political bullcrap, I want the latest on Northern troop deployments."

  "One moment."

  As he waited, General Hornworks cast a weary eye to the mountains above Seoul. In those mountains, he knew, Korean heavy artillery was hunkered down behind blast doors that opened and closed only long enough for one shell to be fired. God knew how many tanks were massing.

  The line stopped buzzing and the voice came back. "General, the North is quiet. I say again, the North is quiet."

  "Then what in Sam Hill is going on down here!"

  No one knew. But the tanks rolled and overhead, Korean F-18s roared up from Onsan air base.

  "I do not like the looks of this," said General Winfield Scott Hornworks in possibly the mother of all understatements.

  Sergeant Mark Murdock had Truck duty again. He hated Truck duty. But in his unit everyone took his turn behind the wheel of what could only be called "the Truck."

  It was a deuce and a half. Parked smack in the middle of the Bridge of No Return, bridging North and South Korea. It was kept perpetually running, the brakes on, ready to be popped into gear. The Truck's ass end was backed up to the barrier bisecting the bridge that said Military Demarcation Line. On the other side was North Korea. The most dangerous regime on the face of the earth.

  If the alarm sounded, it was Murdock's job to slam the Truck into reverse and bottle up the main bridge through which a North Korean invasion would surely come. As everyone knew it would come.

  It was not inevitable. And in the past year it seemed some weeks a hell of a lot less likely than anytime in the past forty years. But in that same time frame, Sergeant Murdock knew, the two Koreas had been closer to total war than at any time since 1953.

  And it was Sergeant Murdock's unhappy, frequent duty to be the man designated to hold the bridge against a million ferocious invaders.

  When he heard the clanking of tanks, his blood froze. His hand going to the stick shift, he waited for the alert siren.

  No siren roared. The clanking of tanks grew. There had to be hundreds of them. The ugly sound reverberated off the surrounding mountains and filled Murdock's fear-shrunk brain.

  Eyes going to the rearview mirror, he searched the impenetrable darkness of the Hermit Kingdom. There should be lights. Some sign. "Jesus Christ, where's the siren? What do I do?"

  He wanted to bolt the Truck. He wanted to sound the alarm himself if those UN idiots wouldn't. But he knew he would be shot for dereliction of duty, because his first duty was to block the bridge.

  Blocking the way was the same as kissing his ass goodbye, he knew. The bridge was a narrow thing of iron, vaguely rustic, and once he plugged it with the Truck, he was stuck. The doors wouldn't open. He would be the first ground casualty of what was estimated to be two million war dead.

  On the other band, if somebody didn't sound the fucking alarm, all his buddies would join him in Hell.

  In the end he made the smart choice. When the sound he imagined to be T-55 and T-62 battle tanks filled the night, Murdock got out of the Truck.

  Just in time.

  The first tanks clanked up and, without much pause, climbed the vibrating Truck hood. The drab steel caved, breaking the engine block and making the front tires pop like overstressed balloons.

  The grinding cacophony of steel treads mangling a two-and-a-half-ton truck was almost unendurable.

  Hunkered in the darkness, Sergeant Mark Murdock propped his upper body by his elbows and protected his ears with his cupped hands.

  His eyes were as round as saucers in the night as he watched the ROK tanks with their tiger insignia one by one take their turn flattening the Truck as they rolled in single column over the Bridge of No Return___

  And all he could think of was the certain response from Pyongyang. If they had the bomb, it would soon be screaming Seoul way perched atop a Rodong or Nodong I missile—however they pronounced the damn thing.

  Since the earliest days of the land of Korea, Pyongyang was. From the days of Ancient Chosun, when it was called Asadal and was established as the first Korean capital, through the Three Kingdoms period to the present day, Pyongyang endured. Invaded many times, subject to foreign occupation and bombed virtually flat during the Korean War, it had been rebuilt each time, greater than before.

  Pyongyang was a special city. People didn't go hungry in Pyongyang, no matter the famines that prowled the countryside. There were great streets in Pyongyang, which sparkled because few drove automobiles. The buildings reared up gray and strong, and as long as no one walked the floors too heavily, the concrete remained solid.

  In the farthest corner of this special city was a tall concrete building, eighteen stories high, but extending fourteen stories into the bedrock of Pyongyang. On the lowermost floor, in the farthest corner, behind doors of steel that no bombs could reach, a North Korean general listened to what had happened at the Thirty-eighth Parallel.

  A colonel gave him the report. His name was Nekep. A few people knew him. The general's name was Toksa. Pullyang Toksa. Everyone in Pyongyang knew of him, but few had seen him. He alone reported to the premier of the Democratic People's Republic of Korea personally. He did this every day. Pullyang Toksa told the Supreme Leader what was going on in the world.

  In Pyongyang one judged one's importance by how deep one's office was, a remnant from the days when, American bombs fell all over the north. Colonel Nekep had never been this deep, and Pullyang Toksa had never asked questions before. But this time he personally had ordered the colonel from the Ministry of Intelligence to tell him everything.

  "The Master of Sinanju has been seen in Beijing, General," said Colonel Nekep.

  "He will not work for Beijing," said General Toksa.

  "He is in Beijing."

  "The mandarins in Beijing will not meet his terms, for their gold sits in their fists too tightly." He shook his head firmly. "No, the Master of Sinanju will next come here, and when he does he will gladly work for us."

  "But we have not such gold as he will demand."

  "No. But we have better. For the Americans in their insanity have communicated a threat to us. They have dared to target the Pearl of the Orient with a nuclear missile."

  Colonel Nekep paled to the hue of a steamed bun. "They are mad."

  "Whatever they are, they have delivered the House of Sinanju back to its historical home." General Toksa looked up. "Dismissed, and say nothing of this to anyone—or you will be sent to the countryside to dig grubs for your meal."

  The message for the Supreme Leader, premier of the DPRK, did not reach him. It stopped at the cold stone desk of Pullyang Toksa, who sat like a squat toad, his narrow eyes showing nothing but an abiding darkness.

  With such a powerful card in hand, the proper moment, like a helpful ace, would reveal itself.

  Chapter Forty-three

  The first dull thud barely penetrated the deep underground bunker that was the headquarters of II Corps, and so did not awaken General Oh Nambul of the Inmungun, or Korean People's Army.

  The second was no louder, but the repetition caused him to roll over. The third brought him snuffling and snorting out of his sleep in the windowless command bunker north of the Thirty-eighth Parallel.

  His head came off the threadbare pillow, and his ears still rang with a sound he didn't consciously perceive.

  A rumble caused him to throw back his coarse army blanket, but he realized it was only his stomach grumbling.

  The next thud came plainly to his ears, and he jumped into
his cracked boots and clawed on his web belt with its Makarov pistol.

  It sounded like artillery fire. But as General Oh fought to become fit for battle, he felt no shaking in the concrete walls protecting him, nor did the dirt floor under his boots jump as it would under a rocket barrage.

  "What is that sound?" he grumbled.

  An orderly met him as he crawled out of the bunker.

  "Report! "he barked.

  "They are deploying the ROK drops, General Oh."

  General Oh frowned with all of his face. ROK drops were the great concrete barriers that were kept poised over the remaining bridges and roads still linking North and South for ceremonial and prisoner-exchange purposes. In the event of a Northern attack, they were to be pushed off their perches with explosive charges, pry and crowbars, completely blocking all northern attack avenues.

  "Are we invading the South?" he said in the stupid tone of a man who hadn't quite awoken from sleep.

  "No, General. The South is invading us. But never fear, for we are an invincible army who greatly outnumber their pitiful ranks."

  General Oh stood rooted for a long moment. Were his ears lying to him?

  Again he asked the orderly as the camp sprang into life all around. Jeeps were heading south. Every man knew his duty. For this was the historical moment all had trained for.

  "ROK K-l tanks are pouring up the Munsan Valley, Comrade General. But they drive into the teeth of horror. For have we not been preparing for this hour for over forty years?"

  General Oh's doughy features went flat as a pond. His eyes creased in his moon face, and his mouth went slack as if the muscles of his mandible had been sliced by a bayonet.

  He groaned like a wounded man. "We are doomed."

  "Comrade General, we are already victorious. They charge into the gleaming teeth of our entrenched forces. We have prepared. Even now bullets and spare parts are rushing to the front. Soon Seoul will be ours, for the fools of the South have given us the pretext to seize their fine cities and women."

  "No. No. You have it wrong. This was not the way it was supposed to happen. This is not what we have prepared for."

  He wheeled and shouted at a driver. "You, stop. Unload those munitions. They do not need more bullets at the front. They need rice."

  The driver looked momentarily blank. His expression seemed to ask, What type rifle fires rice?

  "Rice!" General Oh screamed. "Rice. Send rice to the front. All the rice you can scrounge. Only rice can save Pyongyang and our Supreme Leader. Rice! Rice! Do you hear me? Rice!"

  And falling to his knees, General Oh of the Inmungun knew all was lost. This was not the historical moment Pyongyang had anticipated. This was disaster, and he was the general in charge of the disaster.

  Captain Cang commanded the first line of defense of the DPRK. He lived in a mountain, Stone Mountain, which overlooked the Munsan Valley. Within his mountain he cleaned and oiled and drilled his great 170 mm Koksan gun and its gun crew.

  All the mountains overlooking the DMZ had been hollowed out and great elevators built within. On these lifts sat the Koksan guns, their tubes pointing south though the thick natural granite.

  They were the perfect defense. When the signal came, his gun crew would swing into action like the well-oiled machine it was trained to be. The breech would be rammed shut. The gun was always kept loaded. The huge elevator would toil upward, lifting gun and gun crew while synchronized gears caused great steel blast doors to lift, exposing the rising gun tube just long enough to deliver its terrible 170 mm shell. The gun was preaimed. All the Koksan guns were preaimed.

  There would be time for one shot and one only. Then the elevators and the blast doors would return to prefiring position before the counterfire systems of the mysterious South could lock on and target the mighty Koksan gun.

  Return fire would perhaps dent the blast door if properly targeted, but most likely it would chip at the obdurate granite of Stone Mountain. By that time, the great Koksan gun would already be reloaded and toiling upward for its second punishing blow against Seoul, which was but thirty miles away.

  That was the purpose of the Koksan gun during war. To pummel the capital of the mysterious South into submission.

  That was the battle plan in place for forty years. Ground-based SAM missiles would add to the rain of destruction. And once Seoul was softened up, the million men of the Inmungun would pour south to take the Southern capital.

  That was the plan.

  The reality didn't go according to the plan.

  When the signal came that war had at last come, Captain Cang got his gun crew organized. The breech was slammed home as the lift hoisted. Moonlight streamed into the hollow of Stone Mountain as the blast door rose ponderously.

  When the preaimed gun reached firing position, Captain Cang prepared to give the order to fire against the hated Southern capital.

  He was already too late. The battle plan presupposed certain realities. None of them assumed ROK tanks already rolling across the DMZ and elevating their tank guns toward the blast doors themselves.

  While Captain Cang savored the moment of battle, the honor of directing the first Northern shot, the ROK tank gun opened fire, lobbing a shell that screamed toward his invincible Koksan gun, silencing gun and his crew forever in a paroxysm of violence.

  All across the DMZ, mountaintops were erupting as Koksan guns began falling to an enemy all had been told to expect but no one really believed would come.

  As he careered through the night toward the front, General Oh saw the flashes and heard the reverberations of the night exploding all around him. In the back of his jeep were canvas sacks of rice. Rice in abundance. As much rice as his strategic reserves had held.

  Which was exactly seven ten-pound burlap sacks.

  For General Oh knew what his underlings did not. The preparation for war with the South presupposed a Northern attack. Not a Southern invasion. The frontline defenses were stretched thin, with bullets in plenty but insufficient rations. The frontline troops were kept on short rations for a very good tactical reason.

  When the order came from Pyongyang to drive south, General Oh, who was to give it, would unleash his men, driving them south, hungry and envious, their sole motivation the generous provisions the Southern capital held.

  It was a struggle they could win because they were fighting toward the most important short-term goal any soldier could fight toward.

  Food.

  A purely defensive war was another matter. They had arms aplenty to hold their positions. What they didn't have was rice. And without rice the underfed Inmungun wouldn't hold their positions very long. Without rice they couldn't hold back the Southern forces a day.

  And so he careered toward the front with all the rice his jeep could ferry, hoping to forestall defeat long enough to call up reinforcements he knew would also arrive hungry and in need of rice.

  It was hopeless.

  Worst of all, General Oh knew the South knew this. That was why they had dropped the ROK barriers behind their advancing tanks. It was to discourage retreat in the face of an overwhelming foe. And a force that had no retreat option would fight all the more fiercely.

  Chapter Forty-four

  If once all roads led to Rome, in the late twentieth century all off-ramps on the global information superhighway led to the computerized desk of Dr. Harold W. Smith at Folcroft Sanitarium in Rye, New York.

  Mexico was camped on the United States's southern border, her intentions unknown.

  In the Middle East, Kuwait had attacked Iraq, and Iran was readying its short-range Scud missiles to deliver long-delayed punishment raids upon downtown Baghdad.

  While everyone threatened Israel, no attacks were launched. Israeli nuclear-tipped Jericho II missiles had been readied, and all the Middle East knew it.

  Pakistan had launched a non-nuclear-tipped M-11 missile against Indian soil. It shredded a herd of cows, creating possibly more raw indignation than if the prime minister had been mur
dered and the Taj Mahal blown up.

  Bombay had retaliated with a single launch of an Akash missile. It splashed harmlessly into the Rann of Kutch.

  Virtually every nation on earth was publicly announcing the development of a new superweapon destined to dominate warfare in the next century. But no one had activated theirs. Capitals the world over were in an uproar. War jitters danced across the face of the globe.

  In his Spartan office only Harold W. Smith knew the truth. There was no flood of superweapons. Only one. And only one nation would possess it in the end.

  As he tracked the airline credit-card purchases through eastern Europe to Asia, Smith saw, as if on a map, that wherever Remo and Chiun landed, that region became an instant powder keg.

  Rome. Bulgaria. Macedonia. As Smith worked, they popped up on a flight to Beijing. Almost as soon as Smith's computers reported the fact, Russian Topol-M ICBMs pretargeted on China were cleared for launch. This according to National Reconnaisance Office satellite reports, which Smith's net-trolling computers intercepted.

  Obviously spies were lurking at airports the world over, furtively reporting the movements of the Master of Sinanju to their spy masters.

  And with each visit, the world lurched inexorably toward global war.

  Simply because a spurned Korean had given a speech before the United Nations.

  Hunkering down at his terminal, Smith watched the scrolling AP bulletins as they came off the wire and he wondered how long it would take the President to put all the pieces together.

  Or if he would.

  Chapter Forty-five

  On the way to Moscow in a Chinese military jet, the Master of Sinanju was explaining to his attentive pupil that the House of Sinanju had not worked for a general since the days of Sayak.

  "Generals are our enemies," he said flatly. "And they make improper rulers. A general controls armies. Armies fight. Emperors hire assassins because their armies are incompetent or they wish to vanquish their enemies without incurring the wrath of the armies of their enemies. And generals know this. Never accept gold from a general no matter how honeyed his words may be. Sinanju is the enemy of all generals. For all generals know that emperors have no need of generals when their kingdoms are guarded by the House."