Red Phoenix Burning

by Larry Bond

  Tae looked back at Yang, who was still standing there glassy-eyed and blank-faced. “Snap out of it!” he growled. “Pyongyang is in the hands of those who murdered the Supreme Leader! It is our duty to reclaim the capital and exterminate the traitors!”

  He raised his voice. “Put artillery fire on every enemy position blocking our advance to the bridge. Hammer those bastards for five minutes. I want the 162nd Regiment to attack as soon as the barrage lifts! This is a general assault. I do not want anything held back. Not a man. Not a gun. Not a shell!”

  Galvanized by his stream of orders, the 33rd Division’s staff swung into action.

  From here on, this was going to be a straight fight, Tae realized, and a hard one. True, they were disorganized. But so was the enemy. There was no turning back. So be it, he decided grimly. When opponents are evenly matched, it is the strength of their minds that guarantees victory. Then he smiled thinly. That was a quote from the late and unlamented Kim Jong-un’s grandfather, Kim Il-sung.

  17 August 2015

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  Chris Sawyer loved hunting for scattered bits of information and fitting them into a recognizable pattern. The intellectual challenge had drawn him to intelligence work. He was providing real answers to people who made very important decisions.

  But every job had its downside. The decision-makers needed their eight a.m. briefing, which meant the briefers needed input from the different intelligence agencies by six, which was why the CIA Joint Crisis Team was meeting at five o’clock in the morning. Even with the long summer days, sunrise was a ways off.

  The news of Kim’s death and fighting in the capital, and of multiple “pretenders to the throne,” had put Washington’s national security organizations on a near-war footing. In addition to Sawyer and the rest of the North Korean section, the crisis team, run by Chris’s boss, had pulled in people from all over CIA, including the proliferation shop and the China and Russian desks. There was even an economist.

  Jeff Dougherty, the team leader and head of the North Korean section, started the meeting the instant he walked in the room. He spoke loudly enough to cut through the buzz of conversation. “George, what can you tell us?”

  George Yeom had Korean parents who’d immigrated to the US. He was fluent in Korean and kept in close touch with his extended family back in the “old country.” It was his job to also keep in close touch with the National Intelligence Service. The NIS was the South Korean equivalent of the CIA, and Yeom managed the exchange of information between the two agencies.

  Seoul was thirteen hours ahead of Washington, which meant George was more accustomed to the odd hour than his colleagues. Short and square-faced, Yeom avoided the podium and stood near a map of the Korean Peninsula. “The South Korean agencies live and breathe HUMINT, of course. They don’t have our satellites or ELINT aircraft, but then again, satellites won’t tell them who’s loyal to whom.

  “Most of that HUMINT used to come from defectors and their spy network in the North. That network is now in a shambles. Their assets are either unable to communicate, gone to ground, or possibly arrested. NIS just can’t tell. The channels the agents used to pass information are unavailable. Phone exchanges, dedicated tie lines, and the private networks used by some of the foreign organizations that operated in the North are all down, either by design or disrupted by the fighting in Pyongyang.

  “On the other hand, the number of defectors, or more properly, refugees, is through the roof. They give a consistent picture of fighting around the capital, along with witch-hunts and random arrests throughout the countryside, but few useful details.

  “My opposite number says they are ‘taking measures to get more information,’ but wouldn’t provide specifics.”

  Dougherty asked, “What about their take on the communications we’ve intercepted?” The US and ROK operated joint listening stations along the DMZ, and the US shared the information it gathered by ferret aircraft.

  Yeom shrugged. “Civilian traffic is way down, and what’s left is disjointed and contradictory government pronouncements. If you’re talking about cultural or linguistic insights, they can’t see any pattern or purpose, because they think there isn’t any purpose.

  “They agree with our assessment that there are three major factions: Kim loyalists, a group of party bigwigs, and the General Staff. They have absolutely no idea who’s going to come out on top.”

  Yeom saw Dougherty looking at the clock and wrapped it up quickly. “At a higher level, my contacts tell me there’s a huge fight within the ROK cabinet. A lot of people in the South want to send the army across the DMZ, right now, while the Kim regime is tied up in knots.”

  Many around the room looked either amused or worried. “President An is not one of them,” Yeom announced firmly, “and has pointed out to the hotheads the danger of presenting the different factions with an external enemy.”

  “Sounds like what’s been going on in Congress,” Dougherty remarked.

  “And the ROK armed forces are remaining at something called ‘Invasion Alert,’ and the reserves are being mobilized,” Yeom finished, then returned to his chair.

  Dougherty nodded and started working his way down the table. “Ben, what about China? Anything to add?”

  “They’re keeping the embassy in Pyongyang and consulate in Chongjin open, but the last bus carrying noncombatants left Pyongyang for the border yesterday morning. The Chinese are beefing up their border security, but it’s all border troops. The three group armies in the Shenyang Military Region are still in their barracks or engaged in routine training. There’s been a major clampdown on the Korean refugee community. We’re all agreed that China’s worried, but is keeping clear.”

  Dougherty nodded and turned to a thin woman with short white hair. “Russia?”

  “No changes since they closed their embassy. There’s been some increased activity near the border, but nothing like China. Our assessment is that the Russians have enough on their plate. They’ll keep out. Of course, they love anything that gives us and China problems.”

  After Dougherty had consulted all the subject experts, he called on Sawyer. “Chris, does this all agree with what you’ve seen?”

  “No disagreements,” he said, standing slowly. It had been a long night. “One addition, though.” He pressed a key and a photo appeared in place of the map. “This is a weapons magazine outside Kaechon, north of Pyongyang. That’s the headquarters of the First Air Combat Command, and the magazine is located near an air base. We’ve had it marked as a WMD storage site for quite some time.”

  The satellite photo showed a rectangular area with a grid of paved roads inside a three-layered fence. In the center of each square of the grid was an oblong mound, artificially flat on one end. There were several dozen such mounds, guarded not only by the fence but pillboxes at the gate and each corner of the fence. “This was taken last year. It’s been assessed as a chemical weapons site storing free-fall chemical ordnance.”

  He hit a key, and a new photo appeared. It showed the same installation, but now a group of armored vehicles were clustered near the entrance, and half a dozen trucks were spaced neatly along one line of mounds.

  “The vehicles near the front by themselves could be dismissed as extra security, but there’s only one reason for that many trucks to be inside.”

  Dougherty asked, “When was this?”

  “Early morning, their time, today—nine hours ago. I first saw it about half an hour ago.”

  Low murmurs filled the room. Sawyer knew they were saying what he’d thought when he first saw the image. The genie was out of the bottle, but a better metaphor might be Pandora’s box. Remembering the sharing agreement, Sawyer explained, “I’ll be sending this to George Yeom as soon as we’re done here,” nodding toward the analyst.

  Turning back to his boss, Sawyer added, “And this is in your in-box, along with more tasking requests.”

  Dougherty smiled. “I d
on’t know what’s left to use. The only thing we don’t have watching North Korea is the Eye of Sauron.” There were a few laughs, and he continued. “I will ask that the priorities be reviewed, since we now have confirmation of exactly what we were most afraid of.”

  He glanced at the clock and announced, “That’s it. I’ll be briefing the director in five minutes. Thanks for your hard work. We have more information, but that just means more questions.”

  17 August 2015

  Ninth Special Forces “Ghost” Brigade

  South Korea

  Colonel Rhee Han-gil concentrated on where to put his feet, one step at a time. It was simple enough. He wasn’t being shot at, and anything where he wasn’t under fire was, to his way of thinking, simple.

  But it was hot today. His adjutant had politely suggested classroom and marksmanship training instead of a timed twenty-kilometer march. After all, the temperature at noon would be thirty-two degrees Celsius, nearly ninety-two degrees Fahrenheit. Regulations said the troops had to be kept inside if it was thirty-three degrees or higher. Of course, the adjutant’s real concern was Rhee. It wouldn’t look good for the Ninth Special Forces Brigade’s commander to collapse with heatstroke.

  Okay, Rhee thought stubbornly, so he was on the high side of forty, maybe very high. But he was in excellent condition, and he believed in leading from the front. He knew his reputation: decorated combat service in the Second Korean War, then multiple tours in Afghanistan, and rapid promotion. He was one of the youngest officers ever to command a Special Forces brigade. There were rumors that he’d make general soon, but he was actually happier as a colonel. He’d seen too many energetic leaders promoted and tied to a desk, turning into sedentary lumps with hands.

  He grinned. Well, that wasn’t going to happen to him. Paperwork was why they invented adjutants.

  He shook the sweat out of his eyes and turned to look down the line of trainees pushing uphill behind him. He grinned again. He was still out in front and he was carrying the same load as the twenty-four-year-old second lieutenant leading the platoon. These men had completed their advanced training before being assigned to the Ninth, the “Ghost” Brigade. But if they had expected to relax, Rhee had told them, forget it. Their real training was just starting. Especially with the insanity going on north of the DMZ, he needed these new troops in shape, now.

  They were fourteen kilometers in on what the brigade called the “Stone Snake.” Laid out in an extremely irregular oval in the rocky hills surrounding the brigade headquarters, the dirt path was worn ankle-deep in the surrounding terrain, except where stones resisted erosion and rose up to catch the unwary.

  Rhee knew he was tired. The sweltering, sticky air didn’t seem to have enough oxygen to sustain him, but he forced himself to think like an officer, a leader. He sent the lieutenant back along the line to check on his platoon. Were they drinking enough water? Were any of them limping?

  The kid had a good spirit. The required time for finishing the Snake today was two hours, while any man who made it in an hour and forty-five minutes would get the rest of the day off. The lieutenant, in front of his men, had promised Rhee that the entire platoon would make it in less than an hour and forty-five minutes. Confident, the kid was already planning a barbecue for his men later.

  So far, they were on schedule. But the junior officer had to learn that if he wanted his men to perform like that, it took more than words. They had to know their lieutenant was looking out for them. And if that was the only lesson Rhee managed to pound home on this hell march, he would consider it time and agony well spent.

  “Sir,” one of the trainees gasped, pointing ahead.

  Rhee turned and saw the cloud of dust coming up a winding dirt road that intersected the Snake at several places. He shaded his eyes against the sun’s glare. That was a jeep speeding toward them. His adjutant’s voice suddenly squawked over the radio. “Sir, I’m with General Kwon.”

  The young officer didn’t add anything else. He’d already said enough. Major General Kwon was Rhee’s boss. He commanded the Republic of Korea’s Special Warfare Command, the “Black Berets.”

  Rhee turned toward the platoon leader. “Bring them the rest of the way, Lieutenant! And I’ll expect you to keep your promise!”

  Using the energy he’d saved for the last few kilometers, Rhee sprinted for the jeep as it pulled up close to the Snake. He stopped just short and snapped a salute. “So it’s started, sir.”

  It wasn’t a question, just a statement of fact.

  Kwon, lean and gray-haired, nodded sharply, with just the hint of a grim smile. “It has started, Colonel. And we’re sending you and your Ghosts in deep.”

  Chapter 4 - Reconnaissance

  18 August 2015

  Sinanju, North Korea

  The farmer had gladly offered a ride to Cho Ho-jin in return for gas money, a few Chinese yuan notes, and a story about a “business to the south.” Travel in the people’s republic was closely controlled, but the farmer didn’t care about Cho’s movements, not when the truck, the farmer, and the load of vegetables it carried were all illegal, making him technically subject to imprisonment or death.

  But people needed to eat. The government ration was for two poor meals a day, which had been declared the official diet of the country. Only the elite were able to buy more food legally, at state-run stores with North Korean currency. The rest of the population either starved or found ways to make money in the gray economy, where the Chinese yuan and American dollar were the only currency that mattered. The official exchange rate of one hundred thirty North Korean won to one yuan was a joke, and largely ignored. The gray market rate was about four thousand to one.

  The gray market in North Korea grew and sold food, provided goods from shoes to Japanese electronics, and services that ranged from haircuts to installing a tuner in your radio that would receive foreign stations. It survived, in spite of the government’s efforts to either stop it or co-opt it, because the state-controlled economy could not provide the necessities of life.

  So food was privately grown on government-owned land, and shipped in trucks that were registered to a government office, and sold at an open-air market that theoretically didn’t exist, because government directives explicitly forbade private businesses. And as long as every petty official and every police officer got a part of the proceeds, in yuan—not won, if you please—it didn’t exist.

  As bad as things were in the DPRK, without the gray market they would be far worse, and that’s why the government couldn’t make it disappear. The officials that would have to enforce the edict made far more money from gray businesses than they ever would from the state.

  As a result, much of the North Korean economy consisted of bribes. Low-ranking officials received payments and gratuities and outright kickbacks in return for favors and fudged records and customized documents. The petty officials used their gray income not only to buy goods on the gray market, but also to pay higher-level bureaucrats tribute and bribes in exchange for their protection.

  Cho received an adequate, if not generous supply of foreign currency from his Russian masters. His last mission had been close enough to the Chinese border to facilitate a fresh supply for his travels south. He had enough money to move and eat, which in North Korea would be considered a major accomplishment. His current identification said he was an agricultural inspector, which provided an excuse to travel.

  So the farmer, a squat, weathered peasant by the name of Park, had been delighted when the inspector had not asked for a bribe, but instead offered to help pay for the trip to the market. Cho listened attentively to the local gossip as they drove from the farming village, down National Route 1, over the Chongchon River to the edge of town.

  There was plenty of gossip to listen to. Cho’s status as a petty official didn’t deter Park from complaining about corrupt police and idiotic rules. Lean and gray past his years, he was worried about much more than the weather and the greed of the local officials. The
stories from the capital were beyond belief: buildings exploding, battles in the streets, and worst of all, contradictory and confusing orders to the officials, the populace, and even the military.

  Park had a son in the army, somewhere south, and told Cho the boy’s unit had received three sets of orders in the past week, from two different commanders: first to mobilize and head to another army base, then prepare for a defense of their own base, and then to leave and move south to the DMZ. When Cho pressed for the son’s location or unit, Park replied that his son, an ordinary soldier, hadn’t been told the unit’s name for security purposes, and only officers were allowed to look at maps.

  He spoke to the boy by phone once or twice a week. Like many North Koreans, both Park and his son had gray market cell phones, made in China or Japan and modified to work on the North Korean network. It wasn’t cheap, Park explained, but while he had two daughters, Park Jang-su was his only son. And he was worried. The unit had received a full load of live ammunition twice, only to turn it in again each time.

  It was an hour-long drive from Tongyang village to the Chongchon River Bridge. National Highway One was a reasonably well-maintained two-lane road. The morning traffic was backed up right before the bridge, and leaning out the side window, Cho could see a police vehicle parked off to one side. He suppressed the automatic flash of fear—his identity documents were in order.

  The line of vehicles, mostly trucks like Park’s, crawled forward and eventually Park stopped next to a policeman waving a small flag. “Bridge fee,” the policeman demanded. “Ten yuan.”

  “As if I had ten yuan,” Park groused. The farmer was already holding a few bills in his hand, but out of sight of the official. “I won’t have any money until I sell this load. Why don’t you come around then?”

  “Because you farmers are too quick to leave, which is why I’m standing here.” The policeman sounded like he’d been inconvenienced. “Seven yuan.”