Red Phoenix

by Larry Bond

  “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 crack
le 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.”

  “Of course, sir.” Chyong’s understanding showed in his eyes. He saluted and stalked out of the tent, followed closely by the colonel.

  Slowly Cho’s shoulders sagged and he sank back into his chair. For a moment he considered writing a letter to his wife, but then decided against it. He had brought her enough pain already. His hand reached for the pistol atop his desk.

  The muffled sound of the shot from inside the tent startled Chyong, even though he had known it would come. He stood rigid facing the closed tent flap.

  Yun’s voice came from behind him. “So, General Cho has chosen the easier path. Well, he looked like a wise man to me.”