by Larry Bond
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 Sou
th 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.”
McLaren leaned forward. “Look, General. I’m well aware that you want those men posted back in the cities to help you control these student demonstrations. And I’m sure you’re equally well aware that my country simply can’t countenance the use of regular military forces to put down civil unrest.”
“General McLaren.” Park’s anger was starting to show. “These riots are being sparked by terrorist agitators. My government is not facing simple crowds of unruly students. These radicals are being led by a hard-core communist cadre.”
“Bullshit.” Damn. McLaren was glad there were no State Department flunkies around to hear his undiplomatic language. But that was what they got for sending a combat soldier on a diplomatic fishing expedition. “Cut the crap, General. I don’t doubt for a minute that the bastards up in Pyongyang are salivating over all the trouble down here. But don’t try to feed me that stuff about these students being controlled by the commies. It ain’t going to wash — here or in Washington.”
Surprisingly, General Park smiled. “Very well. If you can speak so bluntly, then so can I. But I shall deny ever having said this, you understand?”
McLaren nodded. Well, well, so Park hadn’t really expected him to buy the communist agitator line. Interesting.
“The truth is that my government must restore order in our cities … and we must do so quickly.” Park lowered his voice. “As you know, we have a … how do you say it? A tradition of military intervention to bring order out of chaos.”
McLaren nodded again. South Korea’s military had jumped into the political fray in 1961 and 1979. “Go on.”
“There are officers, junior-grade officers to be sure, but officers nonetheless, who are becoming unhappy with the way the government is handling this latest crisis. They believe we have been indecisive, even weak, in responding to these student provocations.”
“So. Have your Defense Security Command deal with these officers. Hell, that’s what you’ve got it for, isn’t it?” McLaren couldn’t see the problem. The Defense Security Command was a vast, shadowy organization maintained solely to protect the South Korean government from coup attempts by its own military. Security agents were attached to every significant armed forces command, with instructions to keep a close eye on all goings on. And all South Korean officers were subject to rapid and unexplained transfers whenever it seemed that they might be becoming too popular with their troops. It was a system that reduced military effectiveness, but it did provide the government with a powerful check on any overly ambitious officers.
But Park shook his head. “The grumbling is too widespread. If we took hasty action against just a few of these men, the others might be driven into an unfortunate decision.”
Uh huh, McLaren thought, an “unfortunate decision” that would end the careers of a certain number of government officials — like General Park, for example.
Park looked closely at him. “So you see, General McLaren, it is essential that we bring this rioting to an end. The Combat Police are having trouble doing that. You must allow us to use our soldiers to restore order. It is necessary.”
Cute. Very cute. McLaren knew full well that the government, if it simply wanted soldiers for riot duty, could use its “black beret” Special Forces troops — men who weren’t under the Combined Forces Command. But using regular units, units nominally under his orders, would send a signal throughout Korea and around the world that the United States gave its full backing to whatever measures the South Korean government used to quell student dissent. Well, he wasn’t going to play that game.
“No dice, General. If your government wants to end these demonstrations, I suggest you rely on the police to do it. And if I were you, I’d tread more carefully in the way you go about it. If you’ve been following events back in the States at all, you know the Congress is giving the administration hell right now about our involvement over here.”
Park sat rigid in his chair for a moment. Then he stood abruptly. McLaren followed suit. “Then, General McLaren, I believe we have nothing further to discuss today. I shall inform my colleagues of your decision.”
McLaren picked up his uniform cap and briefcase. “Okay, you do that.”
“They will not be pleased. Perhaps our President will want to discuss the matter with your President.”
So they were going to try going over his head on this one? That wasn’t much of a surprise. But McLaren doubted they’d get any further with Washington than they had with him. “Fine. I’m sure they’ll find a great deal to discuss. In the meantime, your colleagues don’t have to be happy with my decision. They just have to live with it.”
He returned Park’s salute and headed out to his staff car. He had an inspection to conduct. And with the mood he was in, he sure as hell hoped the commander of the 4th Battalion, 7th Cavalry had everything ready.
CHAPTER 8
Intentions
SEPTEMBER 23 — PARTY HEADQUARTERS, PYONGYANG, NORTH KOREA
The lights were out all over Pyongyang, leaving the city wrapped in a darkness broken only by the stars reflecting off the Taedong River. All its massive government buildings, monolithic statues, and towering apartment houses merged into simple patches of greater or lesser blackness — without feature, without clear line, without scale.
Kim Jong-Il smiled bitterly as he stood looking out over the city from his office. He knew that these periodic practice air raid alerts and blackouts had little military use. He’d seen the lowlight videotapes made by the American bombers striking Libya in 1986. Denying them the use of city lights as aiming point
s wouldn’t have much effect.
Still, the alerts served as an important instrument of political control. They demonstrated unity and discipline. They reminded the people of the sacrifices of the past and of the dangers as yet all around. After all, what significance could petty internal grievances have when compared to the threat of an aggressive, imperialist war machine?
Kim turned away from the windows, closed the heavy blackout drapes, and switched on his desk lamp. The small circle of light cast distorted shadows against the wood-paneled walls of his office — shadows he ignored. He’d wasted enough time in useless contemplation. Now was a time for action.
The agent Scorpion’s work had borne fruit beyond all his initial expectations. The bloody scenes in Seoul’s streets had shattered the South’s governing coalition, and they were driving the American Congress out of lockstep with its client state.
He had the wedge he’d sought. Now he had to make use of it.
Kim snapped open the sealed Defense Ministry folder sent over by special courier earlier that evening. It contained a thick sheaf of densely typed papers and annotated maps. The title page bore a simple, boldfaced legend:
Draft Operations Plan:
RED PHOENIX
Most Secret
SEPTEMBER 24 — II CORPS HQ, KAESONG, NORTH KOREA
The rumble and clatter of tank treads made it impossible to speak. Lieutenant General Cho Hyun-Jae glanced nervously at the guest beside him on the reviewing stand. Then he swung his eyes back front and allowed himself to relax minutely.
His guest didn’t seem angered or bored by the procession of battle-ready armored fighting vehicles Cho had arranged. On the contrary, Kim Jong-Il seemed pleased, almost excited. The hard, set lines around his mouth had softened somewhat, and Cho could see the momentary gleam of white teeth every time a T-62 thundered by the stand.
