Red Phoenix (28 page)

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 eyes 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.

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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-west 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.

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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.

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.