Red Phoenix (81 page)

“Perhaps not by themselves, Viktor Mikhailovich. But what about when they are joined by the Americans? Their message also indicates that they have offered the use of an airborne division to act as a peacekeeping force while the cease-fire is implemented. And that they are asking the Americans to provide the air transport for those troops!”

Silence greeted the foreign minister’s words. The news was worse than any of the members of the Politburo could have imagined.

At last the General Secretary spoke through stiff lips. Long-held plans were collapsing around his ears. “The signal the Chinese are sending is easy to read. They are on the verge of wholeheartedly allying with the Americans.”

It was unthinkable. Unimaginable just a few short months before. How could he have guessed that the insane gamble of one North Korean megalomaniac could destroy years of hard diplomatic work and cautious maneuvering? He had come to power as General Secretary determined to reweave the Soviet hegemony over the Far East—to bring China back into its proper orbit around Moscow, to bend the emerging economic powers of Asia to the Kremlin’s will. And now all that was falling apart.

He stirred himself into action. He’d fought enough battles in his time to know when to cut his losses. “Comrades, this latest Chinese betrayal changes everything. The new correlation of forces is clear. And our own course is equally clear. We must now act swiftly to save what we can.”

He quickly outlined what he had in mind. There wasn’t much discussion. There really were no realistic alternatives.

SURFACE ACTION GROUP ONE, NEAR THE TSUSHIMA STRAIT

Admiral Valentin Zakorov read the urgent signal from the Kremlin with great relief. Sanity had evidently prevailed somewhere within those red brick walls.

He looked up at
Frunze’s
captain, who stood impatiently waiting for new orders. “Captain Nikolayev?”

“Sir?”

Zakorov stuffed the message in his uniform pocket. “Signal the formation to immediately alter course to zero three zero degrees. We’ve been ordered back to Vladivostok.”

“At once, Admiral.” Nikolayev left on his errand.

The admiral looked at the chart showing two American carrier battle groups within four hundred miles of his force and sent a mental prayer to the nonexistent God for sparing his ships the test of battle. Beneath his feet he
felt the deck surge as his battle cruiser turned and picked up speed—steaming home for safe harbor.

OVER NORTH KOREA

Colonel Sergiev Ivanovitch Borodin blinked his navigation lights three times and then threw his MiG-29 into a tight, rolling turn to the northeast. He looked to either side and saw the planes belonging to the eight other surviving pilots of his erstwhile training squadron settling into formation. Good, the political officer’s covert message had reached all of them.

His radio suddenly squawked. “Fulcrum Flight, what are you doing? That turn was not on your flight plan. On your present course you will leave your designated patrol area in three minutes. Acknowledge. Over.”

Borodin smiled wryly. At least one of the North Korean ground-based air controllers had been awake. He ignored the voice and opened his MiG-29’s throttle, watching in satisfaction as the fighter accelerated smoothly past six hundred knots.

“Fulcrum Flight, you are now out of your patrol area. What the hell are you playing at? Over.”

Borodin smiled more broadly. He recognized this new voice. It belonged to the arrogant bastard in charge of the North Korean capital’s air defense network—a network he and his squadron were leaving behind at an increasingly fast clip.

He clicked his mike. “Good afternoon, General. This is Fulcrum Lead. We’re not playing at anything. We’re simply obeying our orders.” He glanced out the cockpit. They were crossing into North Korean’s rugged Taeback Mountains. Snowfields sparkled in the sunlight.

“Orders? Who gave you orders that override mine?”

Borodin laughed for the first time in weeks. “Moscow, my dear, slant-eyed General. And my orders from Moscow are very simple. We’re going home.”

He clicked off and switched frequencies to pick up the Vladivostok Air Defense Network. They were less than thirty minutes away from entering Soviet airspace. The North Koreans would have to fly their own planes from now on.

JANUARY 19—THE MINISTRY OF DEFENSE, PYONGYANG, NORTH KOREA

Kim Jong-Il listened to the increasing flow of reports with a sinking heart. There couldn’t be any doubt left. The Soviets were abandoning him—pulling every last adviser, combat pilot, and technical expert they had out of
the country as fast as they could. Even the munitions trains from Vladivostok had stopped, some within a few kilometers of the border.

“Well, Dear Leader? Now what shall we do? What miracle do you offer?” an insolent voice asked.

He looked up at the speaker, Tai Han-Gi, and felt his despair transformed into a towering rage. How dare any man, even one on the Defense Council, address him in that manner? He was the son of the Great Leader—and a great leader in his own right.

Kim slammed his fist into the table. “Coward! Chinese puppet!” He pointed a pudgy finger at the unmoved face of the minister of communications. “Your time is coming, old man. I advise you not to hasten your own end.”

He saw the other old men around the table frowning at his words and forced himself to calm down. With the crisis upon them, rage was an unproductive emotion, and his revenge for Tai’s slights would have to wait. He lowered his voice to a more reasonable level. “Comrades, we need no miracles here. Certainly the situation we face is a difficult one. But it is not insoluble. It is true that the Russians and their weapons were useful, but we can live and fight without them.”

Kim levered himself up out of his chair and moved to the situation map hung on one of the underground bunker’s reinforced concrete walls. He tapped the area around Taejon. “Our First Shock Army is still fighting gallantly, and I have no doubt it will soon crush this temporary enemy incursion into our liberated zone.” He saw the sneer on Tai’s face and chose to ignore it.

“Even more important, comrades, we still possess vast, untapped resources. Our Red Guard militia alone musters more than two million fighting men and women. With them fully mobilized, we shall be able to sweep down from the north and crush the fascists once and for all. This war is not lost! The final victory is within sight. We have only to reach out with both hands and seize it.”

Silence greeted his words. A silence broken only by a single, dry cough.

“Yes, Choi?” Kim couldn’t keep the disdain he felt from showing.

“A simple question, Dear Leader.” Choi coughed again, covering his mouth with a withered, wrinkled hand. “Do you propose to repeal the laws of mathematics during this final drive for victory?”

“What do you mean?” Kim’s uneasiness multiplied. These men were beginning to openly defy his judgment. Perhaps they were even mocking him.

“Only this, Kim Jong-Il.” Choi paused to let the insult sink in. “You say that we have two million men and women in our Red Guards. And that is true. But does not the South have twice that number of its own militia?”

Kim dismissed Choi’s question with an abrupt wave. “The oppressed
masses of the South will not fight their liberators! America’s bandit mercenaries will be left to face our people on their own.”

Tai laughed harshly. “You seem to forget, comrade, that the ‘oppressed masses of the South’ have already been more than willing to fight our armies. Read the reports from your own commanders if you doubt my word.” The others nodded their agreement. “The truth, comrade, is that you are living in some kind of fantasy world, while the rest of us must live with the reality of the wreckage you are creating.”

Kim goggled at him, struck dumb by the man’s audacity. Tai must have a death wish, he thought wildly. So be it, I shall oblige him.

The minister of communications continued without letup, “This war is lost. China now stands ready to join forces with our adversaries. The truth is that we cannot afford your ruinous rule any longer.”

“Traitor!” Kim screamed, and saw spittle from his mouth spray out. He lunged back to his chair and stabbed a finger onto the security buzzer installed there. Then he straightened and smiled grimly, eyeing the rest of the men around the table. “Who else stands with this Chinese lackey? I assure you that there are unmarked graves enough for all of you!”

He heard the door open behind his back and heard footsteps. He spoke without turning around. “Captain Lew, you will arrest those two immediately.” He pointed to Tai and Choi, both of whom still sat calmly in their chairs. “Then you will stand ready by me. There may be more arrests to follow.”

Tai smiled easily. “Comrade Kim, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so tired before. I think you’ve been working too hard. In fact, I believe that you deserve a long rest, a very long rest. Don’t you agree, Comrade Choi?”

Choi nodded. “Undoubtedly, Comrade Tai.” He looked behind Kim. “Don’t you think so, too, Colonel Lew?”

Kim felt ice-cold fear stab clear up his spine as he heard a familiar voice say, “Certainly, Comrade General Secretary.”

He turned slowly and saw Lew standing there with his pistol drawn. It was aimed precisely at Kim’s face.

Tai’s smug, triumphant voice came from over his shoulder. “Take him away, Colonel. You know what to do.”

Lew nodded without lowering his pistol an inch. “Yes, comrade. I know what to do.”

Other uniformed men entered the bunker and seized the man once known as the Dear Leader by both arms. Without waiting for further orders, they dragged him silent and unprotesting toward the door. An unconnected thought raced through Kim’s frozen mind. Now he knew why rabbits sat motionless when trapped by the cold, glittering eyes of a snake. And it was knowledge he would never have the chance to use.

Behind him, he heard Choi speaking urgently to the others still in the
room. “Come, comrades. There is no time to lose. We must signal Beijing immediately. We must tell them that their conditions for a cease-fire have been met. This foolish war must be ended while there is still time left to us.”

______________
CHAPTER
43

End Game

JANUARY 19—THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

None of those gathered in the Oval Office for early-morning coffee had slept save in brief, unconnected snatches. They’d been kept busy all night by a continuous stream of ever more urgent developments—trooping back and forth between the basement-level Situation Room and the more comfortable trappings of the Oval Office itself.

First had come fragmentary reports that the Soviets were reducing the alert status of their forces throughout the world. Those reports had been confirmed by a late-night hotline conversation between the President and the General Secretary—their first direct contact in weeks. The Russian had seemed strangely apologetic, and both men had agreed to treat the series of clashes between their armed forces as a series of regrettable accidents. Tensions were still high, but they seemed more manageable now.

Next, NSA, Japanese, and South Korean monitoring stations had all reported a sudden cessation of Radio Pyongyang’s normal mix of boastful propaganda and martial music. It had been replaced by a somber and uninterrupted medley of funeral dirges.

Finally, satellite photos and communications intercepts all showed unmistakable signs of a massive Soviet exodus from North Korea.

It all pointed to one thing, and Blake Fowler shook his head in rueful admiration as he glanced through the Chinese government’s proposal for what seemed the thousandth time. China was getting everything it had bargained for and more. Much more. He wondered how the Russians had ever come to believe that they were the world’s greatest chess masters.

Blake looked up as the President’s desk phone buzzed.

“Yes?” The President sounded awake, though he didn’t look it. “Go on.”

Blake and the others watched as the President listened quietly for several
minutes without speaking. At last he hung up with a simple, “Thank you, Mike. Now go home and get some rest.”

Then he bowed his head for almost a minute, still silent. At last he looked up at Bannerman, Simpson, Blake, and the others waiting anxiously. His face was absolutely expressionless. “Admiral Simpson?”

“Yes, Mr. President?”

“I want you to contact General Carpenter immediately.” Blake caught the faint glimmering of a suppressed smile on the President’s face. He looked years younger. “Tell him I want those Military Airlift Command planes on their way to Beijing within the hour.”

Blake understood and grinned, but the others still hadn’t caught on.

The President saw their uncomprehending stares and care-lined faces and took pity on them. “Ladies and gentlemen, that was the communications room. Radio Pyongyang is reporting that Kim Jong-Il is dead. Kim Il-Sung is still alive but he’s an invalid. And Beijing has just announced that the new North Korean government has agreed unconditionally to the PRC’s ceasefire proposals. All hostilities on land, in the air, and at sea are scheduled to end in six hours. The Chinese have relayed a North Korean request that we end our radio jamming so that they can inform their forces trapped in the south.”

He smiled openly. “In other words, ladies and gentlemen, the war is over. The killing is over.”

Blake knew that wasn’t quite accurate, but it was close enough. The balance of power in the Pacific had shifted. The eternal seesaw between China and Russia in North Korea had ended, with the Chinese turning the north into a puppet state. Russia’s Pacific strategy lay in the same grave as Kim Jong-Il.

The Chinese wanted South Korea as a trading partner. To keep the trade flowing, they would have to lower the tensions, open the North’s borders, and stop the terrorism. It was a little early to talk about reunification, but there would be a lot less heat and a lot more light in that corner of the world.

Now he could rest. Now they could all rest.

JANUARY 20—UN FORCES MOBILE HEADQUARTERS, OUTSIDE SONGT’AN, SOUTH KOREA

McLaren stood outside his camouflaged command vehicle, listening to the distant sounds of war. Heavy artillery rumbled far off, a concussive, rolling series of muffled
whumps
that he could feel as well as hear—something like a cross between the sound of a fireworks display and a thunder-filled summer storm.

He glanced at his watch: 1359 hours, local time. And as he listened, the noise faded and then fell away entirely—leaving behind a strange, empty silence. With a sudden shock McLaren realized that it was the first real, waking quiet he had known since the war began. His days and nights had been filled with the background drumbeat of war—artillery barrages, clanking tank treads, roaring truck engines, static-filled bursts of frantic radio voices, and the distant crackle of small-arms fire.

And now it was over.

Hansen swung down out of the converted armored personnel carrier. He grinned. “All units are checking in, General. As far as we can tell, the cease-fire is in place.”

McLaren bowed his head, genuinely praying for the first time in years. He hadn’t felt able to do so with conviction since his wife’s funeral. But now the words came freely. He thanked God for granting his soldiers a victorious peace, and he prayed for all the dead and wounded, for all those who had suffered so terribly to win that peace. And when he had finished, he raised his head, surprised to find his eyes wet.

McLaren wiped them roughly and blew his nose. “Goddamned winter colds. Always get ’em.”

He looked away across the snow-covered fields, then straightened his shoulders. “Okay, Doug. Let’s get back to it. We’ve got a hell of a lot of work to do before those Chinese paratroopers arrive to make sure this thing stays over.”

Hansen saluted and followed his general in out of the cold winter air.

JANUARY 22—FIRST SHOCK ARMY HQ, NORTH OF TAEJON

A cold wind whipped the tent flap and Colonel General Cho Hyun-Jae shivered, despite the feeble warmth emitted by a charcoal burner standing in one corner. The chill he felt had its origins in his despair and not the weather.

They had been defeated. Defeated and disgraced. The ugly words rang endlessly and uselessly in his mind. He had been able to think of nothing else in the three days since the communiqué arrived from Pyongyang—the first real signal he’d received from the high command since shortly after the imperialist counterattack began.

The tersely worded message still lay open atop a desk crowded with crumpled maps, radio gear, and his personal weapons. He stared it unseeing, the cold phrases burned into his mind:

Cease all offensive operations immediately. Cease-fire with opposing forces effective 1400 hours, 20 January. The People’s Army will stack all arms, destroy or render
useless all heavy weapons and equipment, and move north. List of approved withdrawal routes follows. Troops from the People’s Republic of China will serve as escorts and observers of withdrawal process.

Pyongyang’s orders and the reported death of his patron, Kim Jong-Il, had caught Cho like a thunderclap. In all his years of service, nothing had ever prepared him for the possibility of defeat and still less for abject surrender. It was literally unthinkable. The Korean People’s Army had never known defeat in battle.

Or so its propaganda said, Cho thought.

Reality taught a different lesson. The imperialist counterattack had proved impossible to resist. The enemy moved too fast, supplies were nonexistent, and worst of all, the fascists had complete control of the air. Cho hadn’t seen a friendly aircraft in days.

And now this. His eyes focused again on the message. He had failed—failed his men, failed his country, and failed his Great Leader.

Outside, those few staff officers he had left alive were working diligently to carry out his last orders. Under the eyes of Chinese “peacekeepers,” they were overseeing the destruction of every tank, armored personnel carrier, and artillery piece left to the First Shock Army. Others marshaled the pitiful remnants of his once-proud divisions in temporary holding camps, awaiting the word to march north weaponless.

Cho clenched his fists. That was the final humiliation—to be shepherded home under the eyes of the Chinese like prisoners. And home to what fate? He had no illusions about his own destiny, but what of the thousands of men he commanded? What would happen to them? What would happen to his country?

Even now he found himself unable to imagine a nation led by anyone other than the two Kims. For forty years the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea had been governed by their will and their will alone. Every aspect of public and private life had been regulated by their desires. Now all that was gone—vanished as if it had never been. The Dear Leader was dead, a heroic martyr to the Revolution, they said, and the Great Leader had retired from active government, too ill and sick at heart to carry on. Cho’s whole world had changed in the blink of an eye.

“Comrade General?” The voice of his aide, Captain Sung, startled him. He’d lost track of time. It must be nearly sundown.

“Come in.” Cho stood and straightened his uniform. Appearances must be preserved at all costs.

The tent flap opened, admitting a gust of frigid air, Lieutenant General Chyong, and an officer he didn’t recognize, a tall, gaunt-faced man in a crisp, unwrinkled uniform.

Under layers of fatigue and dirt, Chyong’s face looked as if it had been
carved from stone. “I’m sorry to intrude, Comrade. But Senior Colonel Yun”—he pointed to the newcomer—”has just arrived from Pyongyang with important dispatches.”

Cho couldn’t hide his surprise. “From Pyongyang? How is that possible?”

Yun clicked his heels sharply and bowed. “The Chinese People’s Liberation Army was kind enough to arrange my safe passage through enemy lines.”

“Then your mission must be urgent indeed.” Cho felt colder still. The Chinese bore him little love.

“Indeed it is, Comrade General.” Yun reached into his tunic and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I have special orders for this headquarters from the Korean Workers’ Party.”

There was a deadly formalism behind the man’s polite words, and Cho suddenly realized that the colonel’s uniform bore the insignia of the Political Security Bureau—the secret police organization responsible for ensuring the ideological purity of the armed forces. With trembling fingers Cho reached out and took the paper from Yun’s hand.

It was what he had expected since that first message from Pyongyang arrived.

Cho looked up. “This arrest order applies to General Chyong as well?”

Yun nodded. “Yes, Comrade General. I am commanded to take both of you back to Pyongyang to stand trial before a Workers’ Court.”

Chyong interrupted for the first time and demanded, “On what charge?”

The colonel eyed him coldly for a moment before replying, “On charges of high treason, of conniving with the enemy, and of deliberately engineering defeat.”

Chyong’s anger overrode any other consideration. “What fools have put together that tissue of lies?”

“The new General Secretary of the Party and his new minister of public security. And you would do well to remember to show them the proper respect.” Yun’s hand dropped to his holstered pistol.

Cho laid a hand on his subordinate’s shoulder, restraining him as Chyong bit back a bitter curse. “And why have they chosen us for this singular treatment?”

The colonel chose his words carefully. “It is felt in Pyongyang that the ‘masterful’ strategic plan of our departed Dear Leader was”—he paused—“poorly executed.”

Yun spread his hands and stared into Cho’s eyes. “You and Lieutenant General Chyong commanded the main elements of this offensive. Its success or failure hinged on your actions, your skills.”

“We did everything possible to ensure success,” Chyong answered heatedly. “We were defeated by a combination of superior air and naval power. Our ground forces performed superbly. Nothing more could have been asked of
them. Look at our rates of advance, at the casualties we inflicted on the enemy. If you want scapegoats, find them in Pyongyang. By every objective standard, General Cho and I have—”

“Comrade General, please.” Yun’s voice was ice cold. “The issue is not what was done, but what was not done. The liberation failed, and that is enough to convict you a thousand times over.”

He looked back at Cho, who still stood motionless. “In any event, that is unimportant here. For the moment you are both relieved of command. Your respective deputies should be able to supervise the withdrawal of our troops.” His last words were spat out as if they carried a foul taste.

“I see.” Cho stepped back and sat clumsily in his camp chair. He lifted his eyes to Yun and in a flat, emotionless voice asked, “These are the most serious charges I can imagine the State bringing against any person. What penalty will the State exact if we are found guilty?”

“Death.” Yun didn’t try to soften it in any way.

Cho nodded. He knew the kind of trial he and Chyong would be given. It would be public, humiliating, and absolutely merciless. Their guilt or innocence would not be a factor. They would serve as the State’s whipping boys, as the men who failed their people. No, he thought, remembering Yun’s words, as the men who had deliberately sabotaged the now-dead Dear Leader’s strategy.

And at the end? Nothing to look forward to except a public execution. He nodded slowly to himself, calm now that the decision had been made for him.

Chyong paid him little attention. He stood eye to eye with Yun, raging. “These charges are absurd! Our only crime is that we failed to win.”

“That, Comrade General, is the only crime that matters,” Yun replied.

Cho stood again, outwardly composed. “Colonel Yun, I submit to your arrest.” He looked meaningfully at the man. “But I would like your permission to be alone for a few minutes. I have some personal business to attend to.”

Yun studied him carefully and at length nodded. “Certainly, Comrade General. You will have all the time you need.”

“Thank you, Colonel. I appreciate your kindness.” Cho turned to his subordinate. “You must excuse me, Chyong, but I must ask you to leave as well. I wish you good fortune.”