by David Poyer
THEY repelled another attack that night, around 0200, but it was weaker than the afternoon’s. This time the tanks advanced warily, only five or six, and they pulled back as soon as a shell burst near them. The PFCs got a Javelin off but they must not have hit the right buttons because it vanished to the west, still going strong.
Higher said the enemy was losing confidence. Or maybe just running out of men and tanks. Still, the platoon stood to all night long. Hector snatched half hours of sleep in his mask between standing at the Javelin’s thermal sight unit, which gave him a better view than his own NVGs. Each time he fell asleep, though, he woke gasping, his heart hammering, feeling suffocated.
* * *
THE next day dawned to an ominous quiet. Hector kept expecting orders to move out, take the hills ahead. But they stayed put. Around noon word came down that the commanding general had broadcast an invitation to the commander opposite to meet. He was suggesting a cease-fire while the higher-ups talked.
After another long tense wait the captain passed the word to stand easy. “We’re in a cease-fire status,” he said over the net. “Nobody knows for how long, or what, but we’re to halt in place for now.”
Hector walked the line again, noting once more how many fighting holes were empty. How few of the platoon was left. None of the old dogs but him. Patterson was dead. Karamete, a blue-on-blue casualty. Vacante, the sark, had been laser-blinded and evacuated. Hector fleeted up PFCs to squad leaders, and radioed back that they’d need reinforcements if they had to keep holding here. Drones humming along ten feet above the line, spraying a chemical that smelled like limes and was supposed to neutralize the sarin.
As dusk neared again the captain showed up in person. He walked the line with Hector but said little beyond that some refurbished CHADs were on the way up.
As they got to where Patterson had died two marines in masks and gloves were working her stiffened limbs into a plastic body bag. “Hey,” one said. “Can you guys help out here?”
“What you need?” the captain said, voice muffled in his mask.
“Just hold it up. Need to get a shot. This one’s in pretty good shape.”
The other guy was going through her pockets, stuffing whatever he found into a Ziplock. Hector knelt and got his arms under her. When he hoisted her up the mortuary guy felt down around the body. He held up her dog tag beside her face and snapped a photo with his tablet. Then inverted the tablet and held it to her neck, scanning her chip. He stood, and took another photo. “That’s good, thanks,” he said. “You can let it down now.”
Hector squatted beside her as they zipped it up. Her face was the last to vanish. Somebody had wiped the mud off but she still didn’t look good. He rubbed his cheeks, making sure to keep his hands clear of his eyes. He didn’t feel anything, though.
He could see her again, standing at the top of a building, smiling at him as he raised a flag. Broken-field sprinting along the line, ammo boxes tucked under her arms. Squatting with him as they shared a vape.
But he didn’t feel a fucking thing.
Karamete. Patterson. Vacante. And six more, out of twenty humans left in the platoon.
He could remember all their names. Funny. Because as the captain stood above him, Hector couldn’t recall who he was. Something Italian? Fuck, he couldn’t remember his own fucking name. Had to take out his Geneva ID to remind himself.
But he could see every guy and girl who’d died beside him. Remember what they looked like. What they’d said.
Weird. He couldn’t remember the names of the living.
Only those of the dead.
Hector pushed to his feet, not looking back, and he and the captain moved on. Stepping over the torn-up ground, skirting the body bags, each neatly laid out by the graves registration team.
“You did well, Staff Sergeant,” the captain said. “They threw everything they had at us. Three full mech divisions. But the Second held. You did okay.” He glanced sideways. “How you holding up?”
“I would like to apply for a transfer,” Hector said, rubbing his throat. Astonished, once the words were out of his mouth.
The officer frowned. “This campaign’s over, Staff Sar’n’t. Seoul’s in uprising. Kim’s dead. We broke the army’s back. But we’ll have to occupy. Pacify. We need you here.”
“I want to put in for a transfer, sir.”
The captain examined Hector’s face. His expression changed. Became less surprised. Almost understanding. “Where would you want to go, Staff Sergeant? Training? Or do we need to evac you for CSC? I can’t see inside your head, Marine. You tell me.”
Hector bent over, breathing hard. Something immovable and solid and very hard seemed to be choking off his breathing. He pulled out another autoinjector, and hit his thigh with 2-PAM chloride. The spring triggered but he didn’t feel any pain. He didn’t feel anything. Except the weight in his chest, the inability to swallow anymore, which no antidote seemed to help.
“Well?” the captain said.
Hector said, forcing the words out past the thing crouched in his throat, “Sir. To anywhere I don’t have to send my people out to die.”
17
Andersen Air Force Base, Guam
THE heat was intense. Dan staggered as it hit him, nearly losing his grip on the boarding ladder. He shaded his eyes, squinting across miles of concrete thronged with planes. Bomb damage showed as dark patches, filled with asphalt. On the far side of the main strips piles of wreckage had been bulldozed up, smashed aircraft and buildings ruthlessly cleared aside, part of the squandering and detritus of war.
“Okay, Admiral?” Sergeant Gault, taking his arm. “Look a little pale.”
Dan nodded angrily and shook his hand off. The Marine aide was sometimes a little too attentive. “Let’s get to the terminal, see if the next flight’s on time,” he snapped. Then reeled himself in. “Sorry, Ronson, I’m … tired.”
“You got your head down for a little while on the flight, sir.”
“Yeah, but … yeah.” He vaguely recalled disturbing dreams. Even when he could snatch two consecutive hours of unconsciousness, it didn’t seem to dent his fatigue. It shrouded both mind and body. Slowing his reactions. Making him take too long over what should be simple decisions.
Not good, in a battle commander.
The terminal was a hundred yards away, over concrete so scorching it burned through the soles of his boots. Inhaling the hot, kerosene-smelling air, he forced his steps toward it.
* * *
Indo-PaCom and JCS had reluctantly agreed to a two-week pushback for Operation Rupture. Accompanied by promises of priority shipments of missiles and some additional fuel.
His request that Lee Custer be relieved had been denied. Dan hadn’t been privy to the proceedings, but one of Tomlin’s WTI classmates had been in the room with the VTC when Fleet had raked the logistics commander over the coals. Giving him a stark choice: Provide better support to the operating forces, or someone would be found who could.
Since then their requests for support had found more responsive ears. LogForce had set up a test of Brunei crude pierside aboard Ma Kong, ex-USS Chandler, a modifed Spruance-class destroyer sold to Taiwan years before. For two hundred operating hours her turbines had digested a desalted and washed light export blend rich in medium distillates, without excessive ash accumulation. Fourteen general purpose tankers idled by the slump in world trade were under contract, total capacity one point five million barrels. Dan planned to hold them in reserve at scattered anchorages south of the Spratleys.
He hadn’t heard a word from Custer personally. They dealt through subordinates, or official messages.
But just now Dan was headed for Japan, at the request of Admiral Min Jun Jung, Republic of Korea Navy. After the elected president and his entire cabinet had been shot in Seoul, Jung, as the senior officer to have escaped the North Korean takeover, had gotten himself recognized by the Allies as head of the government in exile. Which, for Dan, entailed a long flight b
ack to Guam, then this second, upcoming leg, Guam to Yokota.
He was only getting spotty information. Nothing was on the official news except feel-good interviews and gushing predictions of secret new miracle weapons. But it did seem the Allies were finally making progress in Korea. Operation Chromite had combined a raid with a decapitation strike. After a combined air and ground assault on his stronghold in the far north, the Leader was off the air and presumed killed. Resistance in front the Allied landings near Pyongyang had collapsed. A glacier that had stood frozen for nearly eighty years was finally melting, collapsing.
“We have to take advantage of it now, Daniel,” Jung had told him in a patched-through call. “I asked Jim Yangerhans for you. Suffering Korea needs you. I know you will not leave her to cry out in vain.”
The orders had arrived within the hour. Dan would go with one aide. His staff would continue planning. Lee Custer would put on Dan’s hat as Commander, Task Force 91.
Dan’s shoulders had slumped, then lifted.
So Custer had won, after all. And Dan had lost his chance for professional immortality. Instead of the history books, as the man who’d invaded China, he would be a footnote, a spear-carrier in a side drama.
He felt less disappointed, than overjoyed at that turn of events.
* * *
FIVE hours later they descended once more. The beach flashed past. Then mile after mile of densely packed buildings, streets, the solidified encrustation of human occupation, came into view. Tokyo. The C-17 had only tiny portholes in the doors, but through one, from his fold-down seat along the bulkhead, he noted the clouds being replaced by distant green hills. Next, a radio tower, then oil storage tanks and radomes. The wheels shrieked and they were down, rolling. He and Gault unbuckled and got ready to deplane.
Jung’s headquarters was posted with a hastily painted sign. Korean, and under it in English, HEADQUARTERS OF PROVISIONAL GOVERNMENT REPUBLIC OF UNITED KOREA. JUNG MIN JUN PRESIDENT. A picture beneath it showed Jung resplendent in choker whites, medals, and white gloves, a smile lighting his broad face as he saluted, gaze lifted to a Korean flag streaming in the wind.
When Dan was admitted to the inner sanctum, though, the president was in his undershirt, sitting cross-legged at a low table, chopsticks flicking among dozens of tiny bowls. Dan’s first impression was that his old shipmate had gained weight. He’d always been barrel-chested, but now excess flesh drooped from his jawline. His belly bulged the thin cotton. Jung glanced up as Dan stopped in the doorway, then hoisted himself with a grunt and waddled toward him, big fleshy arms extended.
“Bro hug, amigo,” he said, and wrapped Dan in a heavy-armed embrace. Dan patted his back, exchanging glances with Gault. “Hey, have some lunch. They feed you on the plane? Damn, I’m glad you could make it. We’re going back. Just like you said we would. Three years. You remember Min?”
Min Su Hwang had been Dan’s liaison during Task Force 76’s swirling, murderous battle in the central Pacific with the Chinese submarine force. Dan shook the willowy captain’s limp hand, then noticed something different. “You’re an admiral,” he said.
“I promoted him.” Jung guffawed and dropped back to a cross-legged posture. He gestured expansively. “Bulgogi beef, that was what you always liked. And white rice. You don’t have to eat the kimchee, Dan. I know how you hated it. But you don’t have to eat it to please me. Not anymore.”
Dan hesitated, then settled across from him. He crossed his legs, and was immediately reminded how uncomfortable most Westerners found the position.
“Admiral, put him in the picture,” Jung said around a mouthful of rice.
Hwang sank to a graceful lotus. He said in a soft voice, “The main battle is taking place in the north. Some of our ships are supporting the Allied invasion there. We have gathered the rest in Nagasaki Bay. From there, only two hundred and fifty nautical miles across the Korea Strait—which you know.”
Dan nodded. Yeah. He’d fought there too, back when the Northerners had tried to slip a nuclear weapon into Busan.
“The ships you know, as well. You led many in our central Pacific fight together. I have done the planning for our return. But it would be helpful if you could look it over.”
“Sure,” Dan said. “Glad to help.”
While Hwang spoke Jung’s wide face had clouded. He lit a cigarette and sucked deep, waving it around as he exhaled. Said, “Unfortunately, we do not dispose of many ground formations. Kim dissolved the ROKA. The officers went to prison camps or were shot. The rank and file went to work battalions. Our spies tell us many have died of starvation. And the Americans say the US has no ground forces to spare, with the occupation of Taiwan and actions elsewhere.” Jung shrugged. “They want me to wait. But I cannot, when my country suffers. We must rescue her. This is the time.”
Goading Jung into action had never been the problem. Restraining him from a headlong Light Brigade charge into the midst of the enemy—that had been Dan’s challenge during their operations in the Taiwan Strait. He couldn’t decide which was harder, getting Custer going or Jung stopped. “So where will your troops come from?”
The provisional president chopsticked up ponytail radish and chewed, eyes narrowed. “We have a few. Perhaps a regiment’s worth. Patriots who left the country when the government fell, or afterward, when I broadcast the call to rally to me.”
“One regiment?” Dan blinked. Was he serious?
“Of course, far too few. So … I have asked the Japanese for an armored division. And for the amphibious lift. It is not how I wanted to return. My countrymen still hate the Japanese. For what they did to us for so many years. On the other hand, they would welcome the Americans. We will have American air cover. But no Marines. No U.S. Army.
“Therefore, Dan, my old friend, I want you beside me when I lead the way ashore. Two heroes, allies and friends. From there we will proceed north, reconstituting the forces of freedom for the liberation as we go.”
Dan fidgeted, shifting his legs, which were already cramping. A division and a regiment didn’t sound like a lot to take on an army, even a weakened one. And “reconstituting” sounded risky too. On the other hand, Napoleon had returned from Elba nearly alone, and rallied enough troops to make it a close call at Waterloo. Obviously Jung fancied himself in the same mold. “Um … when did you plan to land?”
“We sail at midnight.” Jung gazed into the distance with lifted head. Dan suddenly noticed an unobtrusive little man in gray across the room. He was taking pictures, moving about silently on tiny, high-arched, stockinged feet. A striking Asian woman in pink lipstick stood there too, communicating with the photographer via silent gestures.
“Holy … there’s not much point in my looking at your plans, then.” Dan coughed, fighting a tickle from the smoke. “I thought you needed my advice. Landing beach, strategy, breakout, support, comms—”
“That is what I told the president,” Hwang said softly. “But he insists.”
Jung said, “The air strikes will begin tonight. Busan would be the most convenient point at which to land. But the Northern forces realize that too. They have fortified it with heavy defenses. The naval bases at Cheju and Sinseondae as well.
“Therefore, we will land at Gwangyang. A large commercial port. It is well sheltered, with a channel depth of fifteen meters at low tide. If we capture it undamaged, we will be able to offload directly onto the container piers and push inland.”
Jung beckoned and an attractive young woman in a loose combat uniform knelt to spread a chart on the floor. Hwang clicked a laser pointer in the shape of a pink mouse. He briefed the order of sailing, the assault lanes, and the order in which the special forces would secure the port entrance. “We will not have the fire support for heavy preparatory fires,” the chief of staff murmured. “We must count on the cooperation of the dockworker’s union, which we have organized into resistance cells. From there, the railroad leads north.”
“North, to victory,” Jung pronounced, and lifted
his chin. Smoke curled up from the cigarette.
Winstons, Dan remembered. Hwang was staring at him, expression bland, yet still somehow questioning. He rubbed his face, covering his misgivings with a sip of hot tea from the tiny porcelain cup the uniformed woman poured for him.
The operation looked reasonable. If you had four divisions in the assault, and a couple more in reserve. With only one-plus and no reserves, they were begging to get their tails kicked back into the sea. If he was honest, it looked like a recipe for failure.
Should he say so? He couldn’t decide. Couldn’t decide if Jung was a deluded buffoon or quite simply one of the few truly great and historic figures he had ever met. Or perhaps those two things were the same thing, and only Fate and Luck drew the distinction afterward.
A few feet away the little man in gray squatted, aiming his camera at them both.
* * *
IN the end Dan recommended that they have a fallback plan for withdrawal if enemy resistance proved too heavy. And, just as he’d expected, Jung waved it away. “There is no point,” he said mildly. “We won’t need it.”
They flew out of Tokyo that evening in a Japanese Air Self-Defense Force V-22 and boarded Sejong the Great, Jung’s flagship, that night.
The destroyer was massive, a cruiser in all but name. Aegis-equipped like the Arleigh Burkes, but over a thousand tons bigger. Capacious, modern, and with deeper magazines than comparable US classes, they also had a large suite of flag quarters that Jung occupied with the attitude of a medieval ruler in his keep.
Dan had been impressed with the Koreans back when he’d operated with them. He’d seldom seen better sailors, with more can-do attitudes. Maybe Jung was just the average Korean writ large.
Instead of adjourning to those luxurious spaces, however, Jung went to CIC. He was uncharacteristically quiet, replying in monosyllables. Dan took the hint and found a seat at the end of the command table, facing four large-screen displays.
