by Larry Bond
“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 diffi
cult 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.”
“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?”
