Red Phoenix (11 page)

“Like what? And don’t give me some kind of ‘need to know’ runaround. I’ve got Code Word clearance just like the rest of you.”

Dolan eyed Voorhees calmly. “Okay. Like the fact that the Soviets have been supplying the North Koreans with first-line combat aircraft. Like the fact that Kim Il-Sung and his boys are getting advanced tanks, artillery, and surface-to-surface rockets for the first time ever. Like the fact that North Korea’s resident chief lunatic Kim has given the Soviets overflight rights and access to his naval bases—something that he’s refused to do for more than thirty years.”

“Oh, come on, guys.” Voorhees laughed, a bit nervously. “You can’t tell me you’re going to try feeding everyone the old ‘the Russians are coming, the Russians are coming’ bullshit. No one’s going to buy it. What kind of confirmation do you have? I mean, couldn’t this stuff just be rumors spread around by the NSP to keep us backing the South Korean government?”

Fowler decided it was time to intervene. “Some of it may be. But not all of it. Our satellites have caught glimpses of new equipment being fed into
the North, and we’ve spotted increasing numbers of Soviet warships and planes in and around North Korea.”

He paused for a moment. “So we know for sure that North Korea’s engaged in a sizable military buildup. What we can’t get is solid data on what they plan to do with all that hardware. And in a way, that makes the situation we face worse. We can estimate the North’s capabilities but we can’t guess their intentions. That means we’ve got to plan for the worst case.”

He looked over at Dolan. “Your people haven’t been able to get anyone inside North Korea, have they?”

Dolan shook his head. “No. We don’t have a single agent on the ground up there. The damned place is too regimented, too paranoid to infiltrate. We’ve worked with the NSP for decades to try to plant somebody. It never works. They go in … and they don’t ever, ever come out.”

Scott agreed. “Yeah. The only human intel we can get from inside Pyongyang comes from some of the Japanese companies that do business there. And we can’t confirm much of that.”

Time to bring it home. Fowler looked straight into Voorhees’s eyes. “So what we’ve got, Alan, is a country that’s already militarized beyond all reason. A country that’s certainly acquiring even more weaponry. And a country that has a forty-year-old track record of aggression, assassination, and terrorism. Just how do you suggest we should interpret those facts?”

Fowler studied Voorhees’s face carefully. He looked less sure of himself than he’d been before. Good. They had to convince him that there could be an increased military threat if the Barnes troop withdrawal provisions went into effect. If they didn’t, Voorhees might talk his boss, the Secretary of Commerce, into disapproving the Working Group’s report. That wouldn’t please George Putnam one little bit. More importantly, it would set the stage for still another disjointed administration response to half-baked congressional legislation.

Fowler caught Dolan’s eye. “Maybe you could let Alan take a look at your latest assessment of North Korea’s military capabilities.”

Dolan nodded back slowly, a barely perceptible smile on his face. “Sure thing.” He turned to Voorhees. “I’d be happy to messenger over the file anytime you want to see it.”

Voorhees looked around the table. He obviously knew he was outnumbered, and Fowler had offered him a face-saving way out. He nodded. “Okay. I’ll take a look at it. If what you say about the Soviets’ boosting North Korea’s military capabilities is true …” Voorhees paused. “Well, I’d have to say that would show that an American troop withdrawal could cause some problems.”

Fowler fought hard not to smile. They had him. Voorhees might not be completely convinced, but he wasn’t going to oppose the group’s analysis.

He glanced down at his watch again. God, it was getting late. It was time to declare victory and get back to his word processor.

He shuffled his notes back into order. “Does anyone have anything else they want to go over for now?” There was silence from around the table.

“Right. Okay, I’ll finish putting together a draft position paper on the bill. I should have something to send around for comment by tomorrow night.”

Carlson spoke for the others. “When do you need it back?” He looked unhappy. He was probably worried about missing the next Redskins game. Fowler knew he had season tickets.

“Frankly, as soon as possible. Sorry, Ted, but Putnam’s really breathing down my neck on this one. And with the bill going into markup, he might not be so far off base. Maybe you can take it to the game with you.” Carlson laughed.

Fowler stuffed his papers back into his briefcase. “Seriously, I’ve got a feeling the clock’s running on this one, guys. And we’d better get our playbook written and approved before we get stepped on by Congress.”

The other members of the Working Group nodded, gathered up their own notes, and filed out of the room. Fowler headed back to his office.

The meeting had gone pretty well. Unless he’d completely misread the signals, the others agreed that the Barnes bill should be vigorously opposed. There’d be the usual back-and-forth tussle over the exact wording, but in the end he should be able to get them to approve a clear, concise paper recommending that course to the President.

Fowler knew that might prove vital. From what he could gather from the nightly news and in shoptalk around the office, the Barnes Korean sanctions bill was gathering support left and right—though mostly from the left. Unions, church and human rights groups, so-called public interest organizations, and activists of every stripe were out beating the drums, sending in postcards, and holding press conferences. One of the farmers’ groups had even come out in support of the Barnes bill. They’d been pissed off by South Korea’s refusal to open its markets to American agricultural products. It was beginning to look as if it were open season on South Korea.

It also looked as if he and his trusty computer were among the few standing in the steamroller’s path. He stopped in the hallway, stifled a yawn, and laughed to himself. Talk about delusions of grandeur. He must be catching the “Washington disease”—the curious belief that everything everywhere depended on one’s own actions.

He’d have thought he was immune to it, but perhaps it stole quietly into the brain—drawn in from the long, echoing marble corridors, from the flags, the statues of great men long dead, and from the tingling, ever present sensation of power that you felt from the very first moment you wore a security badge.

He walked on, idly fingering the badge hanging from a chain around his
neck. It didn’t matter. He had a policy paper to write, regardless of whether the importance he attached to it was real or imagined.

Fowler didn’t get home until well past midnight.

He came in the door as quietly as he could. The town house they rented in suburban northern Virginia seemed well enough built, but it was small and sounds carried far at night.

He left the hall light off and felt his way along past his daughter’s bedroom. He stopped for a moment at her door, listening for a change in her breathing. Part of him almost hoped she’d wake up. Kary was five, growing up fast, and he’d scarcely seen her for the past several months. But he kept moving. She was in school now. She needed all the sleep she could get.

Mandy had left the window blinds in the master bedroom open—letting in a soft white glow from the moon that gave him just enough light to avoid stumbling into the furniture. He undressed hurriedly, draping his suit pants, shirt, and tie over a chair. Fowler shivered. The August heat wave had finally broken only a couple of weeks ago, but the nights were already turning colder.

He laid his glasses, watch, and security badge on the nightstand by the bed and slid under the covers. A warm hand came up to gently stroke his face. He opened his eyes to see his wife propped up on one elbow. She smiled and bent down over him. “Hi, there. Glad you’re home.”

God, she was beautiful. The moonlight gleamed in his wife’s corn-silk-fine, blond hair and illuminated her pert, freckled nose, delicate, oval face, and baby-blue eyes. His heart turned over with a thump, and he felt a sense of childlike wonder that it still did that whenever he saw her. Even after seven years of marriage.

He and Mandy had met as graduate students on a summer studies tour of Japan, and he’d fallen head over heels in love with her in hours—bowled over by the combination of beauty, intelligence, and a husky, Southern voice. He still didn’t know exactly what she’d seen in him.

He just thanked God he hadn’t completely lost whatever it was, despite the constant strain imposed by the hundred-hour workweeks his job often demanded. And it wasn’t just a strain on him, he thought guiltily. He never seemed to be around when Kary was sick or Mandy needed his help. They’d exchanged some cold words over times like that. But so far they’d both been able to find their way back into love out of the cold. So far. Still, there were a lot of days when he regretted the pride and ambition that had made him forsake a quiet, university teaching career for the “glamor” of an NSC staff post.

Fowler reached both arms around her, holding her close, marveling at her warmth. “Sorry I’m so late.” He kissed her neck. “I should have called.”

She sighed, wriggling closer still so that she lay pressed against him. “It would have been nice. But after I saw the news reports, I knew you’d be
late.” She laughed quietly. “Don’t worry, Dr. Fowler, I didn’t file a missing person’s report.”

He tensed. He hadn’t even turned on the office television that evening. “What happened? Was it something about Korea?”

He could almost feel Mandy’s surprise. “I thought you knew. They had another riot somewhere over there with more shooting. Someplace called Kwangju, I think. It was on the eleven-o’clock news.”

Damn. Goddamnit. The South Koreans were their own worst enemies.

He reached over for his glasses and badge as the phone started to ring.

SEPTEMBER 21—HEADQUARTERS, REPUBLIC OF KOREA ARMED FORCES

Jack McLaren sipped his tea appreciatively and set his cup down. He met the eyes of the four-star general sitting across from him.
“Aju masisumnida.
It’s very delicious.”

General Park, Chairman of the South Korean Joint Chiefs of Staff, smiled politely. “Your Korean is improving greatly, General McLaren. Someday I am sure I will mistake you for one of my countrymen.” Park was a small, dapper man. The uniform fitted his wiry frame precisely. He was obviously in excellent condition.

“Thank you. But you’re already much more fluent in my language than I will ever be in yours.”

General Park bowed slightly to acknowledge the compliment. “Would you care for some more of this tea? Or perhaps there is something else I can offer you that would be more to your taste?”

Yeah, McLaren thought, how about putting an end to all this pussyfooting around and getting down to business. He controlled the urge to let his impatience show plainly. In Rome, you spoke Italian. In Bonn, you drank beer. And in Seoul, you suffered through half an hour of meaningless pleasantries before it was considered polite to talk seriously.

He had to admit, though, that he’d seen meetings in Washington that might have gone more smoothly had those involved spent a little time getting to know each other better.

But he already knew General Park all too well. Park’s combat record as a battalion commander during the Vietnam War had been very good. He’d been deeply involved in politics since then, though, and it showed.

McLaren understood the disdain military men like General Park felt for the fractious politicians and the unending political disputes South Korea seemed to breed, but he didn’t see how they thought they could do much better. Hell, you couldn’t run a growing, prosperous country along strict military lines forever, and if you developed the kinds of political skills
needed to run a democracy, you wound up just being another politician like all the rest. And Park was almost all politician these days.

McLaren drained his teacup and shook his head as Park’s aide leaned forward to pour more tea. The Korean general delicately set his own cup back on the tray and motioned his aide out of the room.

Park sat back in his chair. “There, my friend, we are alone now.” He smiled. “So we are free to discuss things … candidly, as you Americans would say.”

McLaren nodded. “Good. First things first. I’d like to commend your troops for the way they handled that NK commando raid near Ulchin this morning. That was damned fine work.”

A group of North Korean commandos had been landed by submarine, with a mission somewhere inland. While not routine, the North launched such a raid approximately once a month. Their usual missions included sabotage and assassination. Whatever mayhem had been planned this time, the heavy defenses that ringed the coast had stopped it cold, right on the beach.

“They were simply doing their duty. But of course I shall be happy to pass your commendation on to their division commander. He will be delighted, I am sure, to receive praise from the commander of all our Combined Forces.”

McLaren heard the carefully controlled bitterness in Park’s voice but let it pass. He’d known this was a difficult command situation before he’d accepted the assignment to head allied forces in South Korea. The South Koreans, understandably, were increasingly unhappy with a chain of command that put an American general with forty thousand troops in charge of the entire six-hundred-thousand-man South Korean military.

He looked straight into Park’s eyes before continuing. “But I can’t go along with this last request of yours. There simply are no valid military reasons to pull the 3rd Infantry Division back from the DMZ to the interior.”

Park’s face was impassive. “I must protest your hasty decision. Surely your staff has shown you the figures on the recent upsurge of attempted communist landings.”

“Yes, my South Korean staff officers have shown me their studies. But I also know that the forces already in place along the coast haven’t had much trouble coping with these latest landings. They don’t need reinforcements.”