Red Phoenix (80 page)

The President donned his warmest “campaign” smile and stepped forward with his hand outstretched. “There’s nothing to forgive, Mr. Ambassador. As always, I’m delighted to see you.”

The two men shook hands and moved to a pair of chairs closer to the fire. South Korea’s ambassador settled himself beside them.

The Chinese ambassador wasted little time with the usual diplomatic pleasantries. He reached into the leather briefcase he’d brought with him and pulled out a sheaf of papers bearing the official seal of the People’s Republic. “I have my government’s response to your request that we aid you in bringing this unfortunate war to an end.”

He handed a copy to both the President and the South Korean ambassador.

As the two men scanned the documents, Blake felt his heart speeding up and pressed a hand hard onto his right knee to keep it from trembling visibly in nervous anticipation. He watched the President’s face closely and felt his
hopes sink as he saw the Chief Executive arch an eyebrow. Had the Chinese refused them or set impossible conditions on their help?

At last the President looked up from his reading and stared hard at the ambassador. “Your government’s answer seems”—he searched visibly for the right word—”somewhat tentative, Mr. Ambassador. Much seems to depend on events over which we have little control.”

He handed the papers to Bannerman and turned to South Korea’s ambassador. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Kang?”

The South Korean nodded somberly.

The Chinese emissary sat farther forward in his chair, an earnest and amiable smile on his lips. “Mr. President, Mr. Ambassador, please. It is true that there are certain, ah, conditional aspects to our reply to your proposal.” He glanced at his watch. “However, I have been personally assured by my Premier that, even as we speak, actions are being taken that will ensure that those conditions are met.”

Bannerman gave the Chinese reply to Blake, who scanned it quickly—astounded by the grand political design it described in such short, simple words. He stared for a moment at the papers, with his mind half a world away as he tried to assess the diplomatic and military pressures now set in motion. Would they be enough?

He felt the President’s eyes on him, looked up to meet them, and nodded. What the Chinese intended just might work. Hell, it had to work. There wasn’t time to try anything else.

The President nodded back. Blake’s unspoken assessment matched his own instinctive reaction. They’d have to hope that the Chinese knew what they were doing. He sat back in his high-backed Georgian chair. “Very well, Mr. Ambassador. We’ll wait with you for these ‘conditions’ to materialize.” He forced a smile. “In the meantime, can we offer your something to drink? Tea, or perhaps something stronger?”

The ambassador smiled back. “Thank you, Mr. President. Tea would be most welcome.”

“Splendid.” The President looked at his watch and frowned. He reached into an inner pocket, pulled out a pen and small notepad, and scribbled a quick note. He motioned to the admiral still standing by the window. “Phil, could you arrange for this to be sent immediately? I don’t want any unfortunate accidents while there’s still hope that this thing can be settled.”

Simpson crossed the room and read the note. It was addressed to Admiral Thomas Aldrige Brown. He nodded abruptly and left the Oval Office at a fast walk. Time was running out in the Yellow Sea.

ABOARD USS
CONSTELLATION,
NEAR THE TSUSHIMA STRAIT

Brown read the signal from Washington one more time. “You’re sure this has been authenticated, Jim?”

His chief of staff nodded. “It’s genuine, Admiral.”

“Shit.” Brown stared at the Flag Plot’s strategic display. It showed the position of all known Soviet naval and air units in the region. All were closing on his task force. They would be within range in four or five hours at most. He balled his hands into fists and kept them rigid at his sides. The President’s order went against all his instincts to hit before being hit.

Slowly, very slowly, Brown forced his hands to relax. An order was an order. He turned to his chief of staff and said, “Okay, Jim. Signal Washington that we’re complying. And tell CAG to keep his pilots in the ready room. Takeoff time has been postponed for at least three hours.”

Brown turned back to the display as his chief of staff hurried away. He could see it happening again—the same kind of political indecision and drift that had gotten so many good men killed in the air over North Vietnam. The Soviets were going to get within missile range while Washington diddled around. And there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Not a damned thing.

THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW, R.S.F.S.R.

The General Secretary stared slowly around the elegantly furnished room at the other members of the ruling Politburo. Many were his creatures, men he had plucked from lesser positions and promoted to serve his own interests. But if his years in power had taught him anything, it was that loyalty within the Party was a fair-weather commodity. It was there when things went right and gone the instant things went wrong.

And things had been going wrong.

His gaze settled on the defense minister and he scowled. The man sat quiet and unmoving in his chair, his dark brown eyes deeply shadowed and his shoulders slumped. The General Secretary gritted his teeth. The bastard. The foolish bastard.

He rapped gently on the table, ending the low hum of a half-dozen whispered conversations. “Comrades, we face a grave crisis—one with enormous implications for the safety of our motherland.”

Heads around the table nodded. They’d all been briefed on the growing military confrontation between the Soviet Union and the United States. All had been shocked by the speed with which it had developed, and most were unsure of the causes.

The General Secretary continued without pause. “Most of us had assumed that American attack on our surveillance aircraft and submarine was unprovoked. Naturally we felt compelled to respond to this aggression—and to respond with overwhelming force. Hence our preparations for a massive retaliatory strike on the murderous American warships.”

Murmured agreement swept around the table. Although the Defense Council had made its decisions without consulting the full Politburo, all present had seen the necessity of matching the Americans blow for blow. Any other course would only invite continued imperialist aggression.

The General Secretary held up a hand for quiet and shook his head sadly. “Comrades, it is with deep regret that I must tell you that we were misinformed, or perhaps I should say ‘misled,’ by one of our most trusted colleagues.”

He turned to face the defense minister. “Have I misstated the facts in any way, Andrei Ivanovich?”

A shocked silence spread throughout the room. Only the foreign minister was unsurprised. He’d been briefed by the General Secretary more than an hour before.

The defense minister, seeming strangely smaller despite his height, unwrinkled uniform, and multiple rows of medals, sighed and sat upright. “No, Comrade General Secretary.”

The defense minister pulled a handwritten document lying before him on the table closer and began reading in a flat, emotionless voice. “Comrades, on January eleventh of this year, on my own authority, I ordered the submarine
Konstantin Dribinov
to attack a group of American warships. I made this decision unilaterally, without consulting any other member of this body.”

He raised his eyes briefly and the General Secretary could read the hate directed toward the end of the table—toward the director of the KGB. The General Secretary could understand that. When he’d confronted the KGB chieftain with his suspicions, the man had buckled and sold his fellow conspirator down the river without a qualm, interested only in preserving his own position—however temporarily.

“Go on, Comrade Minister. Continue your confession,” the General Secretary prodded, anxious lest the delay raise further, unanswerable questions in the minds of other Politburo members.

The defense minister dropped his eyes to the paper before him. “I made this unilateral decision in response to an urgent request from our allies in Pyongyang. They needed our assistance to help repel an American amphibious attack apparently aimed at their western coast. They had no way of stopping this attack themselves—”

The foreign minister interrupted, no longer able to contain his anger or his contempt. “An attack that later proved to be nothing more than a ploy!”

“Yes, that is true.” The defense minister’s voice shrank to a hollow whisper. He was silent for a second and then looked up from his notes. He’d
been reading them verbatim, but as he continued, he spoke from memory. The General Secretary watched closely, ready to break in should the man stray from the agreed-upon version of the facts. “The momentum of the North Korean attack was slowing, and our materiel assistance no longer seemed enough to ensure victory. I believed that a limited, covert intervention by Soviet forces could restore the situation.”

The foreign minister snorted. “Your so-called ‘covert’ assistance is now spread all over the Western media, comrade.” He raised an eyebrow. “Why, I believe I saw your Captain Markov giving an interview to one of the American television networks.” There were uncomfortable chuckles from the others.

The defense minister flushed red at the gibe. “His orders were explicit. He was not to reveal his identity.”

“Then he failed in his orders. And you have brought us to the brink of an unnecessary and unwinnable war with the West.” The foreign minister spoke flatly, stating facts.

“That is also true, comrade.” The defense minister lowered his head to hide his anger at this public humiliation and then slowly, deliberately read the last paragraph of his prepared statement. “Because of my unilateral actions, Soviet citizens have lost their lives, and our country has been placed in a dangerous confrontation with the imperialist powers. Therefore, I hereby resign my position as minister of defense, my membership on the Central Committee, and my active membership in our beloved Party. Further, I request that I be allowed to retire immediately.”

The General Secretary looked slowly around the table, moving his eyes from man to man, seeking their decision. One by one, each shook his head. The defense minister’s error was too great. Lives had been lost, Soviet prestige reduced, and the chain of command usurped. He would not be allowed to fade away comfortably. A public trial would only further erode the authority of the State, but the Minister’s demise for “reasons of ill health” would soon follow.

Satisfied that he had his answer, the General Secretary cleared his throat and said harshly, “Very well, comrade, you have your answer. You may go. We have work to do.”

The defense minister inclined his head, rose stiffly without speaking, and left the room.

The General Secretary watched him go and then turned to face his colleagues. “Now, comrades, we face the difficult task of extricating ourselves from this mess without igniting a global conflict. Some of the actions we must take are obvious, others less so.”

He crooked a finger at the director of the KGB. “What is the latest news from the war zone, Comrade Director? How are our gallant slant-eyed allies faring?” He let the sarcasm drip from every word to show the Politburo just how he felt about the North Koreans.

“Disastrously, Comrade General Secretary.” The director shook his head. “The imperialist counteroffensive has been astoundingly successful. Our most recent satellite photos show their columns nearing the sea. The Americans and their South Korean puppets are within a day or two of completely surrounding most of the North’s remaining combat formations.”

“Can they be stopped?”

“No.” The KGB director’s words were sure and certain. “The armies of the North are increasingly incapable of undertaking any coordinated offensive or defensive action south of the former demilitarized zone. Their tanks have no fuel, their artillery has no ammunition, and their men have no food. They have been beaten.”

The General Secretary saw anger and dismay flit across the faces around the table. Previous Ministry of Defense briefings on the battlefield situation had painted a much more favorable picture. Naturally.

During the silence that followed the KGB chieftain’s gloomy appraisal, he saw one of the foreign minister’s aides slip into the room with some kind of telex. More good news, no doubt. No matter, it was time to show his colleagues how recent events could still be turned to their advantage. He shifted his eyes and broke the silence. “I think it is clear, comrades, that we must persuade Kim Jong-Il to save what he can of his forces in the South. The survivors can regroup behind their fortifications along the Demilitarized Zone. They will of course need to be rearmed and reequipped. And we shall supply those needs.”

He saw the puzzlement on their faces and smiled. “Think, comrades. Every piece of our equipment the younger Kim accepts puts him further in our debt and in our power. With the Americans and their puppets pounding at his gates, he will have no choice but to accede to our every demand. We shall be the de facto rulers of North Korea. And once that is accomplished, an armistice can easily be arranged. We may not have conquered South Korea, but certainly half a loaf is better than none.” He smiled at his own plan.

“Forgive me, Comrade General Secretary, but that may not be as easy to achieve as you imagine.” The foreign minister held out a telex. “I’ve just received this communique from Beijing. It seems that the People’s Republic of China has just announced that it will support an immediate cease-fire on the Korean peninsula.”

He laid the first telex aside and picked up another. “And this is a message specifically directed to us. In it, the Chinese announce their intention to oppose continued support or arms shipments from any country not now a belligerent. They go on to say that such interference will be met with any and all appropriate means, up to and including the use of military force.” The foreign minister folded the telex and sent it down the table toward the General Secretary.

“They’re bluffing!” The KGB director’s face had turned bright red. He’d always loathed the Chinese. “They haven’t got enough military power to frighten a small child.”