Red Phoenix (79 page)

Temporarily blinded, Roh blinked and looked away from the flames, trying
to spot the American-made aircraft as they fled the scene of their victory. He was gratified to see that some of his men were still firing at them.

A shoulder-launched SAM flashed up into the night sky, darting after one of the fleeing jets. Roh urged it on silently, hoping that his troops might achieve some small success by at least downing an enemy plane. But then the SAM veered away, tracking a decoy flare instead of the vanishing A-10. He cursed and threw his pistol into the snow.

Two hundred meters away, the inferno along the highway became visible as the dust and smoke cleared. Almost every truck had been lacerated by fragments or by actual bomblet explosions. And at least half were on fire. Roh stared hard at them, trying to remember which ones carried ammunition.

One of the vehicles exploded, aiding his memory.

The First Shock Army would have to make do without its supplies.

JANUARY 17—NAVAL AVIATION BASE, VLADIVOSTOK, R.S.F.S.R

The rising sun cast long, sharp-edged shadows across the base and gleamed brightly off snow piled beside its runways. One by one the arc lights that had illuminated the airfield winked off, no longer needed to turn night into day.

The Soviet armaments officer yawned and stretched, trying to work a painful crick out of his neck. He stopped to stare in wonder at the sight before his eyes. It had been dark when the last regiment of bombers flying in from the Northern Fleet had landed, and he’d been so busy that he hadn’t really paid much attention.

But now it was impossible not to. He’d never seen his base so crowded before. Nearly sixty twin-engined Backfire bombers were parked across the field—some wingtip to wingtip, others in protective revetments. Every technician he had surrounded the bombers, manhandling AS-4 Kitchen antiship missiles into place under each wing.

He glanced at his watch. Excellent. His men would finish rearming and refueling the Backfires well ahead of the general’s deadline. And then the American carriers steaming arrogantly off South Korea would have something new to worry about.

SEA OF JAPAN

The Red Navy’s Surface Action Group One steamed southwest at twenty knots, slicing through moderate seas under clear skies. The massive
Kirov
-class battle cruiser
Frunze
occupied the center, accompanied by two older missile cruisers and two modern
Sovremennyy
-class destroyers. Other cruisers,
destroyers, and frigates surrounded the surface strike force as part of a thick ASW and air defense screen.

Three fighter squadrons—two of MiG-23s and one of MiG-29s—orbited endlessly overhead, constantly relieved by new squadrons dispatched from bases near Vladivostok or on the island of Etorofu. All waited eagerly for the word to pounce on any incoming American airstrike.

Surface Action Group One was just twenty hours away from the vital Tsushima Strait.

ABOARD USS
CONSTELLATION,
OFF THE KOREAN COAST

Brown stared hard at the enhanced satellite photos. “When were these taken?”

Captain Ross, his threat team commander, checked his watch. “About an hour ago, Admiral.”

“Jesus, Sam, we’ve got big-time trouble here.”

Ross nodded his agreement. Between them, the Soviet bomber force and the oncoming surface action group could catch
Constellation
and
Nimitz
in one hell of a bear hug.

Brown handed the photos to his chief of staff and clasped his hands behind his back. “Any political intelligence on their intentions?”

“Negative, Admiral. Still no word out of Moscow on what they’re up to.”

Brown swore and started pacing the length of the Flag Plot. Ross and the chief of staff kept pace with him. “Okay, guys. Here’s the way I see it. The Soviets might just be trying to put some extra pressure on us. Maybe they’re hoping to force us to reduce our close-air support sorties for the footsloggers. Maybe…” The admiral turned and walked back the way he’d come. “But we can’t take that chance. We’ve got to assume their intentions are hostile.”

“Agreed, sir.”

Brown stopped by the large-scale map display. “All right, then, gentlemen. Here’s how we’ll play this thing.” He paused and then went on, “Effective immediately, we’ll alter course to close the Tsushima Strait ourselves—ahead of that damned Russian task force. In the meantime I want all ground-support missions halted. Tell CAG I want his strike crews to stand down for a mandatory eight-hour rest. After that, I want a full-scale antiship strike spotted on deck and ready to go when I give the word.”

Brown looked closer at the plot. “How long before those bastards cross the line into our three-hundred-mile exclusion zone?”

“Twenty-four hours, Admiral.”

Brown grimaced. “Then I suspect those are going to be the longest goddamn twenty-four hours of our lives, gentlemen. Let’s stay sharp.”

The admiral stayed where he was as the other two men hurried away to
carry out his orders. Beneath his feet, he felt the
Constellation
heeling over onto her new course—headed south. South toward the Tsushima Strait. South toward a rendezvous with the Red Navy.

UN FORCES MOBILE HEADQUARTERS, NEAR ANSONG

The M-577 command vehicle swayed as it rounded a corner at high speed. McLaren stood high in the commander’s hatch, braced against the personnel carrier’s kidney-rattling ride. From where he stood, he could see the whole headquarters column as it wound its way west along the highway. Tanks and troop carriers were thrown out ahead and behind for security, trucks and command carriers intermingled in the middle, and a flight of helicopter gunships orbited overhead, covering the entire mile-long convoy.

The column slowed as it passed through the smoldering, bombed-out ruins of a small town. Corpses and wrecked vehicles dotted the flat, snow-covered fields outside the village. Most were North Korean. Some were not.

The M-577 bucked sharply as its treads ground over a partially filled-in shell crater, and it turned another corner, slowing still more as it passed a column of men marching east on foot—grinning South Korean MPs guarding dazed-looking prisoners. The MPs saluted as McLaren’s command vehicle roared by, and he returned their salutes with a grin of his own.

The prisoners they were guarding were a clear-cut indication of just how successful Thunderbolt had been so far. Up to this point in the war the NKs had always fought fanatically—often to the last man. Now that was changing. They were beginning to surrender—often en masse. McLaren could feel the tide turning in his favor.

There were other indications of success. Intelligence estimated that his troops had crushed four North Korean infantry divisions in the thirty-six hours since that attack began. Several others had been hammered so heavily that they were now judged completely combat ineffective.

Better still, his armored spearheads had already penetrated up to fifty kilometers, and the NKs still showed no signs of being able to mount a coordinated counterattack. Most of their best divisions remained locked in combat around Taejon, seemingly unable, or unwilling, to break free and march north. Without them the North Koreans couldn’t possibly stop his forces before they reached the sea. And given another forty-eight hours of uninterrupted, broken-field running like this, McLaren knew he could bring victory within reach.

Then he saw a Soviet-made T-62 sitting abandoned off on the shoulder of the road and felt his smile fading. The Russians were the imponderable—the five-hundred-pound gorilla who could jump in at the last minute and wreck everything.

He’d seen the reports. The Soviets had powerful task forces at sea. Their bomber forces were on full alert. And now Category I tank and motorized rifle divisions had been spotted massing at North Korean border crossing points. McLaren shook his head. Were the Soviets really prepared to risk going to war for their North Korean clients?

Jesus, he hoped not. This war was bad enough.

The column sped onward, moving west toward the Yellow Sea, and McLaren moved with it, silently pondering his options if the Cold War suddenly burst into bright-red flame.

______________
CHAPTER
42

Decision

JANUARY 18—BEIJING, PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF CHINA

The Premier of the People’s Republic of China studied his colleagues closely, careful to hide his amusement as he watched the Politburo debate settle into its usual patterns. Late middle age had given him a perspective on human nature unclouded by sentiment or optimism, but it still amazed him that China’s wisest and most experienced leaders could disagree so vehemently and so predictably about so many different issues.

In fairness, however, the Premier had to admit that the matter now before the Politburo was a momentous one, worthy of considered and careful discussion. Still, time pressed on while these men threw the same tired phrases back and forth. The American and Soviet flotillas were within hours of shooting at each other. A war begun in the Sea of Japan could engulf the whole world within minutes. And still these men talked.

The hard-liners, the archconservative communists, were the most predictable of all—the most vocal. Their leader, Do Zhenping, the Party’s general secretary, was the elder statesman of Chinese ideology, the last veteran of the Long March. His words carried weight. “Why even consider this imperialist intrigue? If we act as the Americans suggest, we will help end the war—but it will end in their favor! How do we gain by that?”

“Surely, the answer to that is obvious, Comrade General Secretary?” Liu Gendong was quick to answer. As the minister of trade and one of the youngest men on the Politburo, he led its progressive faction. His oldest son was an exchange student in America now, studying nuclear physics at the California Institute of Technology. Since its early-morning arrival in Beijing, Liu had emerged as the strongest supporter of the American proposal.

He steepled his hands. “The economic and technological concessions the Americans have offered us will be of tremendous benefit to every sector of our economy. And the proposed trade agreements with South Korea are only
a start. Japan cannot sit idly by while its archrival trades freely with us. Nor can Hong Kong or Singapore. They will bid against each other for our favor. The Four Tigers will bow to the Dragon!” He smiled, clearly imagining the negotiations he could conduct should such an event occur.

The Premier saw Liu’s words cause a stir among the undecideds who held the balance of power on the Politburo. He nodded slightly to himself. The minister of trade was a persuasive, if overly enthusiastic, young man. He opted to display cautious support for Liu’s position. “The minister’s words are well-taken, Comrade General Secretary. China is a poor country. We need markets for our raw materials, and we desperately need foreign exchange to buy technology.”

Do Zhenping was unconvinced, his tone unrepentant and uncompromising. “Our merchants have been whoring for the West for years. I see no need to allow them to spread their legs wider.” There were grins at the old revolutionary’s coarse language. It was his most conspicuous resistance to the smoother, more sophisticated face of New China. The old man continued, enunciating every word. “If change must come, let it be slow and not sudden. Let us emulate the tortoise and not the hare. That is the best course for our Revolution.”

“Is it, comrade?” Liu spoke quietly. “Do we have the time? The rest of the world leaps forward while we crawl.”

“Let them leap,” the older man answered petulantly. “Their mad consumerism is not an example worthy of imitation.”

He spoke earnestly, directing his words to everyone at the table, especially the Premier. “We owe the West no favors. They sucked our life’s blood for centuries before the people rose up in righteous anger.” Do stood up unsteadily. All eyes were on him. Age was still revered in China, and this survivor of the Revolution was the voice of history. “Listen to me. Despite its successes, America can still lose this war. The Russians stand ready to help swing the balance back. If we help the imperialists win, we will be seen as the nation that turned its back on its socialist brothers.”

He waved a hand, dispelling arguments not yet voiced. “I have no love for Kim and his gang. His ‘dynastic communism’ is a perversion, a personality cult reduced to absurdity. But what will the world see? China, aspiring to be the world’s third superpower, rescuing capitalist America from a situation that her own weakness and indecision created. I suggest that would not exactly endear us to our fellow communists.”

The old man coughed, a reminder of his bout with pneumonia earlier in the winter. He wiped his lips and continued, “And there is risk. The only way we could force Kim to end his war would be to threaten him with our own troops. The Koreans are already firmly in the Soviet camp. Can we afford to back them further into the arms of the Kremlin?”

The Premier looked around the table. Heads were nodding. Do’s impassioned
words were hitting home with some of the Politburo’s swing voters. But not with enough to be decisive. The conservatives and the progressives were too closely matched on this issue for either to prevail openly.

He smiled. The situation was perfect.

China wanted to act on the world stage, but she did not want to be seen as the puppet of another superpower. China wanted foreign trade, but she did not want the foreign influence that must inevitably follow. China wanted to be America’s friend, but she did not want to be North Korea’s enemy. In short, China wanted it all—the sun, the sea, the moon, and the stars.

And the Premier knew how to get it.

The time had come to intervene—both in the debate and in the war. He leaned forward and rapped sharply on the table. “Comrades! The time grows short. We must make a decision soon, before events move beyond our ability to control them.”

His colleagues nodded, somewhat impatiently. That much was obvious.

He looked first at Do and then at Liu. “Comrade General Secretary and Comrade Minister, I do not believe that our respective positions on this matter are necessarily opposed to each other.” He saw the skepticism on both men’s faces and smiled politely. “Let me show you what I mean.”

The Premier took five minutes to outline his proposal and knew that he had won them over before he finished. China would lay its cards on the table of global politics in its own way.

3RD AIRBORNE DIVISION HQ, BEIJING, P.R.C.

The general rubbed a hand absentmindedly through the close-cropped thatch of gray bristles he called a haircut and squinted into the early-morning light pouring through his office window. The courtyard outside, normally utterly quiet and empty at this hour, looked like an anthill stirred by some mischievous child. Soldiers in full combat gear ran everywhere, loading bags of rice, machine guns, light mortars, and ammunition boxes onto a ragtag assembly of flatbed trucks. Others were being marshaled in platoon formations and then marched away toward the airfield. The general knew that similar scenes were taking place at barracks areas all across the capital.

He turned at a quick rap on his door. “Come in.”

It was the division’s deputy commander, a short, bandy-legged colonel whose flat-featured face showed Mongol blood. “You wanted to see me, Comrade General?”

“Yes, Colonel.” The general waved a hand toward the window. “I’d like a progress report.”

The shorter man nodded and relaxed slightly. The general’s voice was
uncharacteristically friendly. “The division’s assembly is proceeding precisely on schedule, sir. The First Parachute Regiment and Major Lin’s Reconnaissance Company are already at the airfield. The Second Regiment is enroute from its barracks area, and the Third will follow shortly.”

“Excellent. So I can tell the high command that we shall be ready for movement later this afternoon?”

“Certainly, Comrade General.” The colonel hesitated, apparently unsure about whether to say anything more.

“Yes? Is there something else, Colonel?”

The other nodded and tugged his tunic straight. “Simply this, Comrade General. I only wanted to ask if this mobilization was merely some kind of surprise drill.”

The general frowned and paused, considering his answer carefully. He wasn’t in the habit of telling his subordinates more than they needed to know. Still, this was an unusual situation, and his deputy had always been discreet. He opted for candor. “No. I spoke with the Premier himself, late last night. The alert is genuine and concerns possible service outside the People’s Republic.”

“Indeed, Comrade General?”

“Something puzzles you, Kua?” The general was curious. The colonel’s skepticism had been obvious.

The shorter man nodded. “Yes, sir. Before reporting to you, I spoke with General Chen of the Air Force. His transport aircraft have not been alerted. That leaves a question in my mind, Comrade General. If we are being sent to foreign lands, how are we supposed to get there?”

“An excellent question, Colonel.” The general shrugged. “And one I am unable to answer. No doubt the Premier has his plans, although he hasn’t yet made me a full party to them.”

He turned to the window to watch yet another battalion march out the main gate, arms swinging high and rifles slung. He turned back to the colonel. “In the meantime, my friend, we have our orders to carry out. See to it that they are carried out expeditiously. The Premier has stressed the need for haste in this matter.”

“Of course, Comrade General.” The colonel saluted and left to hurry things along. Assembling an airborne division of more than nine thousand men took constant attention.

THE MINISTRY OF COMMUNICATIONS, PYONGYANG, NORTH KOREA

Choi Ki-Wan, a survivor of more than forty years of deadly intrigue, was as cautious in his choice of words as he was in his basic nature. “You have some further word from our mutual, ah, ‘friend’?”

Tai Han-Gi, the minister of communications, smiled indulgently at his older colleague on North Korea’s Politburo. The man was right to fear eavesdropping by Kim Jong-Il’s security forces, but there were, after all, certain advantages to commanding all communications facilities throughout the whole People’s Republic. And they included access to the latest Japanese antibugging equipment. Tai had no fear of Kim Jong-Il spies within the confines of his own office.

He folded his hands. “Indeed, Comrade Choi. I have heard much from our ‘friends’ within these past few hours.”

“Do they offer a solution to our common problem?”

Tai nodded and said flatly, “Yes.” Then he learned closer to the older man. “Actions are being taken now that should give us the opening we need. But there can be no hesitation, no wavering when the time comes for us to act. We are playing a high stakes game—a game with infinite rewards for the victors and infinite torments for the losers. You understand?”

He read the momentary indecision on Choi’s face and wondered if it might prove necessary to arrange a speedy accident for his old comrade in arms. He hoped not. It would be both personally painful and dangerous. Kim’s agents were everywhere.

To his relief Choi’s uncertain resolve hardened.

“Yes, I understand. Well, we must bear those risks. There is no other way to preserve our Revolution.”

Or to preserve our own positions and privileges, Tai thought cynically. No matter, he had Choi’s commitment, and with it the collaboration of all the older man’s supporters. His patrons outside Pyongyang would be pleased.

THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

The five men crowding the Oval Office could not conceal their restlessness. The President paced ceaselessly, his face haggard from too many sleepless nights. Paul Bannerman, the secretary of state, paced beside him, looking equally worn and rumpled. South Korea’s ambassador, Kang Ki-baek, sat motionless by the fireplace, gazing intently into the dancing flames. Blake Fowler sat beside him, all too conscious of his own bleary, red-rimmed eyes, crumpled suit jacket, and notepad filled with nervous doodlings. Only Admiral Simpson seemed outwardly calm as he stood beside the President’s desk, staring out the window at his own reflection.

“Phil, what’s the latest word from Brown’s task force?”

Blake looked up.ThePresident had stopped pacing and nowstood shoulder to shoulder with the admiral.

Simpson glanced at the taller man. “The Soviet strike group is still closing, sir. Tom estimates they’ll cross into his declared exclusion zone
within five hours. After that he’ll have just over an hour before the Russians get within missile range of his carriers.” The admiral squared his shoulders. “He’ll have to have permission to hit them before that happens, Mr. President.”

The President nodded absentmindedly and crossed the room back to Bannerman. “Well, where the hell is he, Paul? What are those folks in Beijing playing at? First their ambassador asks for an immediate meeting and now he’s late getting here.”

Bannerman looked to Blake for rescue. “Any ideas, Dr. Fowler? After all, you’re the China expert here.”

“I’m sure it’s not an intentional delay, Mr. President,” Blake said, hoping he was right. Too many lives depended on this meeting to contemplate being wrong. “The NSA says the signals traffic between the ambassador and Beijing has been extremely heavy all day. I suspect their embassy staff has had problems keeping up with the high-level decoding required.”

The President stared at him for a moment without speaking and then resumed his pacing.

His phone buzzed softly and he reached across the desk to get it. “Yes? Okay, June, send him right in.” The President hung up and turned to face the others. “The ambassador’s car just pulled up. He’ll be up shortly.”

Shortly was something of an understatement. The Chinese ambassador was ushered into the room two minutes later. And despite his evident hurry, he’d obviously taken great care in dressing. His perfectly pressed charcoal-gray suit, white shirt, and red tie made the small, prim man look more like a prosperous Hong Kong banker than the emissary of the world’s most populous communist nation. It also made Blake feel scruffy in comparison.

“Mr. President, I am deeply honored that you have agreed to receive me at this late hour.” The ambassador bowed slightly and straightened. “I hope you will forgive me for this inexcusable delay.”