by Larry Bond
It was more a battle drill than a parade. A battalion’s worth of buttoned-up tanks pitched and rolled across the torn-up landscape at full throttle, spread out in platoon groups of four. The forty T-62s were followed by wave after wave of tracked BMPs and wheeled BTR personnel carriers, some towing mortars and light antitank guns. ZSU-23-4 Shilkas rolled along with this second echelon, their quad 23mm antiaircraft guns elevated and ready to fire into the black, threatening clouds that covered the sky.
Kim watched it all avidly, and Cho thanked the nonexistent gods that he’d arranged this realistic display of a motorized rifle regiment’s combat power instead of the traditional, lumbering military parade. Its effect on the Dear Leader was well worth the precious fuel it consumed.
As the last vehicles roared off the review ground and over a hill, Kim leaned closer and pitched his voice just high enough to carry over their fading engines. “Excellent, General. A most impressive display. Your men typify the five combat readiness guidelines enunciated by my father: tenacious revolutionary spirit; miraculous and elaborate tactics; strong physique; point-blank shooting; and ironbound regulations.”
Cho bowed his head, acknowledging the compliment. “Thank you, Dear Leader. I shall relay your approval to my troops.”
Kim nodded and half-turned to stare out again across the tread-torn ground. The silence seemed to stretch forever. Then, abruptly, without looking directly at Cho, he said, “Let’s take a walk together, General. We have much to discuss, you and I.”
For an awful moment the tall, broad-shouldered North Korean corps commander felt his stomach twist in on itself, but he forced himself to appear calm and unruffled. Logically he should have nothing to fear from this man. His military record was distinguished, he kept his personal life carefully uncluttered of any suspicious bourgeois vices, and he’d made his personal loyalties clear years ago by siding with the pro-Soviet faction of the General Staff and the Politburo — a faction the younger Kim headed. Still, Cho knew fear in the presence of this man who had the power to wipe away careers, lives, with the stroke of a pen or a raised voice. Kim was not always logical.
He followed Kim out onto the open ground. The two men walked for several minutes without speaking, paced by a small cluster of uniformed aides and a phalanx of Kim’s heavily armed plainclothes bodyguards, all of whom stayed well out of earshot.
At last Kim stopped, his eyes fixed on the muddy remains of a small, grassy hillock that had been crushed flat by Cho’s tanks. “Such power,” he half-whispered to himself.
Then he swung round to face Cho squarely. “Such power, General. Tell me, as commander of our Second Corps, you most directly confront our enemies, true?”
“Indeed, Dear Leader.”
Kim stepped delicately over a patch of soft ground. “So you understand the danger they pose to our Revolution?”
“Of course.” What was all this about? It reminded Cho of the political instruction classes of his school days.
“Your wife is well? She finds your new apartment in Changwang Street to her liking?”
Cho looked at the shorter man in surprise. Why the sudden change of subject? “Yes, Dear Leader. But then she’s always been fond of Pyongyang. She’s a city girl at heart.”
Kim smiled, showing his teeth. “Good. Good.”
He clasped his hands behind his back. “Tell me what you think of Red Phoenix, Comrade General.”
Cho shrugged. “I helped draft the plan during my last tour on the General Staff, Dear Leader. It was a good plan then and it’s a good plan now. In fact, I believe that it offers our best hope for a successful liberation of the South.” He frowned as one of Kim’s boots splashed mud across his uniform trousers.
“I see.” Kim’s voice was flat, uninterested. “This plan calls for a surprise attack across the so-called DMZ — an attack launched right out of our barracks. Why?”
“Surprise is the handmaiden of victory,” the general quoted. “The South has larger reserves than we do. A sudden, unexpected attack would deny them the time needed to mobilize those reserves. It would also prevent the Americans from shipping in their own reinforcements.”
Kim nodded his understanding. They walked quietly across the torn-up field for several minutes more before he asked in a carefully casual tone, “How soon could you be ready to launch Red Phoenix? Two weeks? A month?”
A strange question. So strange that Cho answered honestly, without thinking of possible consequences. He shook his head. “Impossible. We couldn’t possibly be ready for several months at least.”
Kim pounced on that. “Why not? Have you and your fellow generals been shirking? Where is all this readiness for instant action you’ve always promised.”
The look in the smaller man’s eyes made Cho picture an ice-cold bayonet poised at his vitals.
It was a time to be cautious. “We are ready for most contingencies, Dear Leader. You have my word on that. But Red Phoenix has not been our official strategy. Launching it successfully would require moving most of our own second echelon troops closer to the front — all without the fascists noticing. That takes time. There are only so many railroads and only so many hours in the day that imperialist spy satellites aren’t overhead watching.”
The general gestured at the muddy, ripped-up ground around them. “And that is the other reason, Dear Leader. An armored assault into the South now would quickly bog down in the rice paddies. We wouldn’t have the mobility required to carry it out successfully. Red Phoenix calls for a winter war — a war when the fields are frozen and can support our tanks.” He stopped talking, conscious that his palms were wet.
Kim dug a boot heel into the soft ground, mounding dirt and torn grass behind it. Then he nodded sharply. “Very well, General. I accept your explanation.”
Cho bowed.
Kim looked carefully at him for several heartbeats and seemed to come to some sort of decision. “What I am about to tell you, General, is a matter of the highest State security. You are not to reveal anything to anyone without my express permission. Understood?”
Wordlessly Cho nodded.
“Should you disobey that instruction, you will suffer. And your suffering will extend to all those who bear your name. Is that clear?”
Cho shivered. Now he understood Kim’s questions about his wife. “Yes, Dear Leader.”
“Excellent.” The shorter man turned away from him while still speaking. “General Cho, I am authorizing you to begin the initial preparations for Red Phoenix.”
For a moment the general stared at Kim, transfixed by a flood of contradictory emotions — shocked by Kim’s bald, calm, assured words, elated at the thought of the People’s Army being unleashed on its enemies after nearly forty years of seemingly endless waiting, and dismayed by the prospect of possible defeat. He carefully studied the man waiting for his answer, swallowed hard, and found his voice. “I shall obey your orders willingly, Dear Leader. But there are … practical difficulties. I am — ”
Kim cut him off with an impatient gesture. “Yes, yes, Cho. I see them far more clearly than you think I do. As a corps commander, you can’t order the second echelon troops forward to a full war footing without the General Staff’s approval. Or make any of the other needed preparations for that matter.”
Kim reached into his tunic and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. He handed it to Cho. “Within forty-eight hours the General Staff will unanimously approve the order contained on that piece of paper. It declares that the recent unrest in the South constitutes a possible security threat to the People’s Republic, and it authorizes any or all troop transfers necessary to meet that threat. I have a similar order for your counterpart at Fifth Corps.”
Kim smiled ironically. “You will, of course, ensure that these ‘defensive’ troop movements mirror the dispositions needed to launch Red Phoenix.”
Cho couldn’t think of anything to say. Launch Red Phoenix? Prepare for war against the South and against the United States without the formal approv
al of the Great Leader, the Administration Council, the Central Committee? This was unthinkable. Unbelievable. Unbidden, another word crept into his mind — daring.
Kim Jong-Il seemed to read his thoughts. “You find my orders surprising? Dangerous, perhaps?”
“No, Dear Leader. It just seems so …”
“Adventuristic?” Kim finished for him. “Perhaps. But why is that bad, my dear Cho? Old men fear adventures. We are not old men, are we?”
Cho shook his head.
Kim smiled. “Of course not.” He leaned forward to peer directly up into the general’s eyes. “Believe me, Cho. There is an opportunity rising in the South — an opportunity for the reunification of our sacred homeland.” Kim clenched a fist. “It must not be wasted. It will not be wasted.” Cho could hear the iron determination in the man’s voice.
Kim’s voice became soft and earnest. “General, forces are at work — military, political, economic factors — that make it imperative that we strike as soon as possible. The imperialists are withdrawing, and until the puppets in the south realign themselves, they will be vulnerable.”
He paused. “Also, comrade, I must tell you, in strict secrecy, that even our socialist allies are not to be entirely trusted. Southern gold is making inroads in both Russia and China, and as they slide closer to the South, they lose the revolutionary spirit. We must move now, while they still have the will to support our cause.”
Kim stopped talking and let his words sink in. Then he leaned forward again and said, “Ride with me, Cho, and in six months’ time you will be a colonel general commanding the First Shock Army. Your future will be assured. You will be a hero of the fatherland.” The man’s dark eyes flashed. “Reject me and you will fall unnoticed in the mud.”
Cho stared into Kim’s eyes. Into the eyes of the sons of the Great Leader. Into the eyes of the heir to the man who had replaced God in North Korea. He had no choice. Wanted no choice. Lieutenant General Cho Hyun-Jae came to attention and saluted.
A thin-lipped smile spread slowly across Kim Jong-Il’s face. He had his general. Red Phoenix was underway.
CHAPTER 9
The Dead Zone
SEPTEMBER 24 — CAMP HOWZE, NEAR TONGDUCH’ON, SOUTH KOREA
Captain Matuchek was obviously not in a good mood.
“Goddamnit, Little. Next time I ask you a question during a map exercise I don’t want a friggin’ military history lecture.”
Kevin nodded. And winced. Oh, Jesus, did his head hurt.
Matuchek carried on. “I wanted to know where you would have placed your machine gun teams to support an assault up Hill five seventy-two. I don’t give a flying frazzoo about limey Lord Wellington and his patented, Waterloo-style, rear-slope defense. Do you read me, mister?”
Kevin nodded again, cautiously, half-afraid that the top half of his brain would fall right out on his company commander’s desk. “Yes, sir. Loud and clear, sir.”
“Okay, consider yourself chewed out. I’ll take your word that it won’t happen again.” Matuchek rolled his chair back a few inches and opened a desk drawer. He pulled out a file folder and slid it across to Kevin. “Anyway, you won’t be participating in the next exercise. You and your platoon are rotating to Malibu West for a week, starting at oh four hundred hours tomorrow.”
Kevin picked up the folder. Malibu? What the hell?
Matuchek chuckled. “Don’t look so happy, Lieutenant. You aren’t going to see any bikini-clad surfer chicks up at Malibu West. That’s the name we use for Hill six forty.” He grinned a little wider. “You’ll be in scenic bunker accommodations along the DMZ, just a couple of klicks north of the lovely little village of Korangp’o.”
“Just us, sir? I mean, what about the rest of the company?” Kevin tried hard to keep his head perfectly still as he talked.
“Oh, we’ll be right behind you. In position along the MLR, the Main Line of Resistance. You’re pulling outpost duty, Lieutenant. You know, first to fight and first to fall.” Matuchek laced the fingers of his hands together on top of his desk and looked slightly smug. “I’ll expect to see your platoon on trucks heading out the camp gate at oh two hundred tomorrow. Sergeant Pierce will know what kind of equipment and supplies to take.”
At 0200? Two o’clock in the morning? Wonderful. A night road march and his first one at that. But two weeks with the 2nd Infantry Division had taught Kevin not to complain — at least not out loud. Matuchek was a good company commander, but he had a hair-trigger temper and it seemed that right now was not a good time to reveal any more gaps in his knowledge or experience.
Kevin hadn’t been able to get the hang of handling the captain yet. Everything that he did seemed to set Matuchek off. The man definitely wasn’t the nurturing type. One of the other platoon leaders had told him not to worry too much about it. There was a rumor going around that the captain and his wife back in the States were having “marital difficulties” and that was the real source of Matuchek’s discontent.
It was easy enough to believe that the rumor was the straight scoop. Korea was classed as a hardship post — no wives or families allowed. And any two people could grow far apart over twelve months. But understanding the reason for it didn’t make Kevin’s position as the focal point for Matuchek’s temper any easier.
“Okay, Little. That’s all for now. Study that folder. You’ll find a platoon deployment drawn up by the officer you replaced. Don’t bother to change it. He knew what he was doing. Dismissed.” Matuchek jerked a thumb toward his office door.
Kevin took the hint and left in search of his platoon sergeant.
Walking across the compound to find Sergeant Pierce was a chore. The ground wouldn’t stay still, it just kept rolling up and down, and the bright morning sun sent his shadow lurching ahead of him.
He frowned at no one in particular. Somehow he was going to have to find a way to get off Matuchek’s shit list. The trouble was he wasn’t quite sure just how to go about doing that.
Take the map exercise the grouchy bastard was pissed off about for example. Kevin and the other A Company platoon leaders had been simulating an attack to recapture an American defensive position along the DMZ during a hypothetical war. Moving little cardboard counters back and forth on a map to show deployments and assault formations. Kevin had been demonstrating how he would position his platoon’s infantry squads and weapons teams to support the attack when Matuchek had suddenly blown up and ripped him up one side and down the other. All because he’d made an offhand comment about how machine gun support wasn’t going to do much good because most of the “Aggressor” defense force would logically be dug in behind the hill — protected from direct line-of-sight support fire. It had made sense then. And it made sense now. But maybe he shouldn’t have tried to show off by pointing out that deploying on a reverse slope was a tactic going all the way back to Wellington’s beating the French at Waterloo. It had seemed like the right thing to say at the time.
Kevin shook his head slowly and then wished he hadn’t. The ground didn’t stop moving when his eyes did. He’d just have to keep his mouth shut about military history around the CO. Matuchek obviously wasn’t much of a scholar.
He’d also have to take it easy next time the other company officers invited him into town with them. Sirroci, Owens, and O’Farrell had called it his “initiation” to South Korea, and they must have hit every bar in Tongduch’on before lurching back to camp. He thought he could remember eating dinner in some tiny cafe, but he couldn’t remember exactly what he’d eaten. Judging from the raw, burning feeling in his stomach and throat, it must have been liberally laced with garlic and some really hot red peppers. Of course, from what he’d seen of Korean cuisine so far, that could describe just about anything.
With an effort he tried to stop concentrating on his hangover and to start thinking about just where his platoon sergeant might be closeted at this time in the morning.
Kevin found Sergeant Pierce in the platoon armory supervising a weapons-cleaning detai
l. Ten men in work fatigues were busy scrubbing away at every moving part of their rifles. It was one of those boring, routine, and absolutely necessary jobs that occupy most of a modern soldier’s time. To keep an M16 up and firing took a liberal amount of 10-weight sewing machine oil and a daily cleaning.
Kevin’s ROTC instructors had gone to great lengths to make sure that he knew that a jammed M16 could be just as fatal for its owner as a tank that wouldn’t run. That was something Sergeant Pierce obviously agreed with wholeheartedly, and he spent a lot of time making sure that 2nd Platoon’s weapons were clean and ready for action.
Kevin poked his head into the small, cramped room and motioned the sergeant outside to give him a quick rundown on their new orders.
“Malibu West, sir?” Pierce was considerate; he kept his voice below its normal booming level.
“That’s right, Sergeant. And the captain wants us up and out of here by oh two hundred tomorrow.” Kevin knew the sergeant and he were going to be damned busy for the next few hours. The logistics involved in moving forty-five men, their personal gear, two M60 light machine guns, three Dragon antitank guided missile launchers, and a week’s worth of supplies up to the DMZ were incredibly complicated. Among other things he had to arrange transportation for his platoon, get the latest artillery support plan, set up his communications — everything, in fact, down to making sure the platoon’s mail would get delivered. Just thinking about it threatened to turn his headache into a real bastard of a migraine.
Pierce eyed him closely. “Look, Lieutenant, I’ll start pulling things together for the move. That’s all SOP anyway.”
Yeah, thank God for SOP — standard operating procedures. Anything the Army had to do more than three times was written down as SOP. He could find the information he needed in the Army’s bible for troop movements, Army Manual FM 55–30, catchily titled “Army Motor Transport Operations.” There were always shortcuts that experienced officers could use that weren’t covered in the manuals. But Kevin knew he had a long way to go before he could consider himself experienced.
