by Dale Brown
“Can you trust the men who pledged loyalty to your revolt?” An asked. “If they are on the communications panel, they can radio for help.”
“Lieutenant, all I have to rely on is trust and my own intuition,” Major Hong said. “I trust your government to support me and my men, before and after the revolt. Besides, there is very little anyone can do even if the whole world knows of what we have done. This facility is not impregnable, but it is self-sufficient and it can withstand a very large assault. And if they do destroy it, they destroy their own national military command center, which will paralyze their command, control, and communications systems.” He smiled a faint smile. “But if our brothers in the South fulfill their part of the bargain, it will not matter. The revolution we are praying for will still take place.”
Lieutenant An nodded. “I have been praying for unification all my life, sir,” he said. “I am proud to be standing with you here this day. What shall we do now?”
“We continue operations as long as we can and make it seem as normal as possible,” Hong replied. “When the fun starts, we shall do everything we can to delay, confuse, and disrupt the Communists’ response, and then we shall pray that our brothers to the south are successful. In less than six hours, we shall see what kind of world we have created together here today.”
KOREAN PEOPLE’S ARMY FOURTH ARTILLERY
DIVISION READY ROOM,
SUNAN, DEMOCRATIC PEOPLE’S
REPUBLIC OF KOREA
A SHORT TIME LATER
What in blazes is going on!” thundered Colonel of Artillery Forces Cho Mun-san, commander of the Fourth Artillery Division at Sunan People’s Army Base. “You had better start talking now, Captain!”
“Sir!” The duty officer, Captain of Artillery Kong Hwan-li, a former missile battery commander, stood at ramrod attention as the division commander entered the ready room. Kong was a young, dedicated Korean People’s Army officer, groomed to be a military officer since the age of twelve. He had been promoted to serve in headquarters after only six years in the field, first as a missile launch officer and then as assistant company commander. Now he was the night division headquarters senior duty officer, in charge of the entire artillery division at Sunan — three brigades of short-, medium-, and long-range surface-to-surface missile units, aimed at South Korea and the region just north of the Demilitarized Zone. It was a high honor for a young captain.
To Kong Hwan-li, this assignment and his previous assignment as a missile launch officer were the most important ones he could ever hope to have. With his skills and knowledge, he would be the first to strike against the capitalists to the south. It was a sacred honor and a sacred duty. The state was in a constant condition of alert and readiness, and the sooner war came, the better.
This situation was a perfect example. Either this was a joke, a no-notice exercise, or the beginning of the long-awaited war with the capitalists. To Kong, it didn’t matter — his duty was clear no matter what was going on. It was he who had had to make the decision to wake up the division commander, and now he had to have all the answers. “Sir, I must report a serious error in our routine communications checks with headquarters,” Kong said.
“Spit it out, Captain.”
He produced the duty officer’s logbook, which contained a page detailing the communications procedures that must be performed every hour. “I sent a routine hourly continuity check message to the Command and Coordination Facility. My last message was properly acknowledged by the computer, except that the authentication was made using last hour’s code. I know the assistant controller at the CCF, so I… “He swallowed nervously, then went on: “Sir, I took it upon myself to phone him to reprimand him for using the old code.”
“That is what you got me out of bed for, Captain?”
“No, sir,” Kong hurried on. “I was unable to reach the CCF by phone. I sent a communications check message, and it acknowledged properly, but again with last hour’s date-time group and authentication code. I then sent an operational security warning message to the—”
“A what?” Colonel Cho shouted. “You sent a what?” Captain Kong handed the colonel a sheet of paper, which Cho snatched out of his hand in total disbelief. “You idiot!“Cho shouted. “An operational security warning message is only sent by the division commander to notify the CCF that his designated missile batteries cannot respond to attack orders!”
“I am aware of that, sir,” Kong explained. “I thought such a serious violation of secure communications procedures warranted such a message. But when I received the reply… well, sir, this is what I received.”
Colonel Cho looked at the acknowledgment message in disbelief. The Command and Coordination Facility acknowledged Kong’s message and ordered him to keep all of his missile forces at the ready but take no further action. The CCF did not countermand or ask for clarification of the warning message, did not call Kong or Cho directly, did not send a security team out to the corps headquarters to ask what was happening or to arrest Cho and Kong for scaring the living hell out of the commanders in the CCF. Instead, they ordered him to stand by!
“What in blazes is this?” Cho muttered. He picked up the hot line telephone that rang directly to the CCF senior controller. No answer. “You have had no other contact with the CCF, Captain?”
“None, sir,” Kong replied. “Only the invalid computer-generated acknowledgment messages.”
Cho was confused. The only operational contact he was permitted was through the Control and Coordination Facility. He spoke quite often with Korean People’s Army headquarters in Pyongyang, but only for administrative and doctrinal purposes. Well, this was an emergency. It was better to wake up a few general officers than sit on his hands and look like an idiot for doing nothing.
“All I ever wanted,” Cho muttered angrily to no one, and especially not to Kong, “is to preserve my family’s name and accept an honorable retirement and pension. Is that too much to ask for a loyal servant of the fatherland? I realize I might not get much of a pension, the state’s economy being what it is, but I expect and deserve an honorable retirement. Yet it seems everyone is conspiring against me and my simple wishes.” He glared at Kong and added, “Especially the snot-nosed young captains, the ones who think they will conquer the world.”
Muttering a curse, he picked up the telephone and dialed. “Captain, this is Colonel Cho, Fourth Artillery Division commander. I want to speak with General Li.” Captain Kong swallowed hard. General Li was the commander of First Corps, the People’s Army’s largest and most powerful military headquarters, and Colonel Cho’s superior officer. Colonel Cho looked at the phone in exasperation, then said, “Well, then I will speak to his deputy, Colonel Ban… I know all calls outside normal duty hours are to be routed through the CCF at Sunan, Captain, but I have lost normal voice communication with the CCF. Perhaps you should try to contact the CCF yourself… I don’t mean a routine ops-normal connectivity check, but a simple phone call…”
The colonel went back and forth with the headquarters duty officer for a few more minutes, then was placed on hold. Captain Kong dared not ask the colonel if he wanted tea, if he wanted him to hold the line, anything — he just waited, realizing that headquarters seemed equally as confused as he did. Finally, after nearly fifteen minutes on hold, Colonel Cho shouted, “At last! What is the meaning of keeping me on hold so long, Captain?… What? My apologies, General… Yes, sir… Yes, sir… Right away, sir.” Colonel Cho lowered the phone back on its cradle, a shocked expression on his face.
“Was that General Li, sir?” Kong asked timidly. Cho did not answer, only stared blankly across the room. It was then that Kong realized something was very wrong, something strange was happening. “Sir, what are your orders from headquarters?”
“My orders were… my orders were to stand by,” Colonel Cho said woodenly. He frowned, deep in thought and confused. “General Li apparently was unable to reach the CCF either.”
“What does this mean, sir?”
Kong asked. “Is it not dangerous to lose direct contact with the CCF for so long? We have no way of receiving instructions. Our forces are vulnerable to—”
“I am well aware of the impact on our forces, Captain,” Cho snapped. “My orders are to stand by. Stand by…” He thought for a moment longer; then: “We have no choice but to do as ordered.”
“Sir, the last valid communications check with the CCF was ninety-eight minutes ago,” Kong emphasized. “Two other computerized messages received from the CCF since then, but neither valid. Three voice checks, two over direct secure lines — none received.” Kong noticed his commander’s hesitation. “Sir, this is very serious,” he protested. “We must assume that all our communications to the CCF are compromised. I say we must also assume that the CCF itself may be destroyed or overtaken by enemy forces.”
“What?” Cho asked incredulously. “How can you make such an assumption? Are you mad?”
“That is the only safe assumption you can make,” Kong said. “Either that, or this is an exercise, a test. Either way, sir, you must respond as if we are under attack. You must order the division to disperse and prepare to attack immediately.”
“You are insane, Kong!” Cho shouted. “I am going to do no such thing!”
“Then we will fail this test — and fail our fatherland,” Kong said. “Sir, you must—”
“Be silent, Captain,” Cho scolded his duty officer. But the thought that this could be a secret no-notice test of his readiness — and possibly his loyalty — resonated. That could be the only reasonable explanation. And if it was, his most proactive response would be an alert dispersal. He had the authority to move his forces, and he had the authority to launch all but a nuclear attack if he felt his forces were threatened. He had the authority. If ever he should decide to use it, it would be now.
“All I really want is my retirement and for my good name to last at least one generation,” the colonel muttered again, shaking his head. But there was no choice. “Very well, Captain. Implement a division-wide alert. Brigade commanders and battle staff members will report to the battle staff command center in fifteen minutes. All regiments are to deploy to L-1 positions and await further instructions. On my authority.”
“Yes, sir!” Kong replied enthusiastically. “Sergeant!” he yelled to his communications chief. The noncommissioned officer ran in from the comm center, startled by the tone of the captain’s voice. “Issue a division-wide alert immediately, recall the battle staff and brigade commanders, and order all regiments to deploy immediately to… to L-1 positions.” The sergeant blanched, then nodded and turned back to the comm center. It was the order he always knew he would relay one day — and the order he had always dreaded.
An L-1 deployment was an attack-in-place directive. All of the division’s 240 FROG, Scud, and Nodong missiles were mobile to some extent. The FROG series and Scud missiles were road-mobile rockets, mounted on either wheeled or tracked vehicles; the Nodong-1 was a rail-mobile missile, resembling a standard railroad boxcar when in the road-march configuration. The missiles were designed to be deployed with Army units and dispersed throughout the countryside. Normally, they would be transferred from Fourth Division to whatever Army unit needed them, and that commander would deploy them and give the order to launch. In fact, one-third of Fourth Division’s weapons were already tasked to other infantry or mechanized brigades, mostly arrayed within fifty miles of the Demilitarized Zone, ready to move south and attack.
But in case of a sneak attack, Colonel Cho had plans in place for the missiles still at Sunan to quickly move to presurveyed launch points throughout the countryside, where in effect he became a field commander in charge of a massive array of firepower. The L-1 directive ordered all missile batteries to quickly march to preselected launch pads, anywhere from two to fifty miles away, set up, and prepare to launch. The wheeled FROG-7 rockets and Scud-B missiles could travel at highway speeds over most terrain, so they were dispersed farther away. The older FROG-5s on their tracks took much longer, so they were dispersed just a few miles, mostly inside the base. The nuclear Nodong ballistic missiles could take several hours to prepare to move, but they could be dispersed anywhere in the country. Mixing in with the regular commercial rail traffic would create a type of “shell game” to confuse the enemy and decrease the chance they could be destroyed by a sneak attack. The L-1 directive was a last-ditch effort that gave Cho’s valuable forces a chance to survive and perhaps even strike back at the enemy.
Captain Kong took his seat at the duty officer’s desk and retrieved the checklist book for the L-1 directive and for a division-level battle staff meeting. He worked swiftly and efficiently, a product of years of training and countless exercises, but his heart was jackhammering in his chest. He knew this was no exercise. Something or someone had cut off communications with the outside world, and his commander had just ordered his forces to get ready to attack.
It was what he was trained for. It was inevitable: the clash between good and evil where the world was destroyed but eventually made way for a new, peaceful world. The capitalist society to the south was corrupt, an American puppet. The Americans fostered the North-South split, fearing that a reunited Korea would not want anything to do with them. Peaceful reunification was theoretically possible, but the Americans wanted to use their weapons and military might because that’s what their corrupt government, propped up by money-hungry military industrialists, wanted. So as long as Americans were on Korean soil, war was inevitable. It was essential to force all foreigners off the sacred peninsula so reunification under communism could take place.
The winner, then, would be the first to strike. Now Fourth Artillery Division took one more step toward making that glorious honor theirs.
Kong opened the checklist book and began making the phone calls, activating the division recall roster and setting everything in motion. A few more calls, and it would roll forward on its own momentum, like a runaway locomotive. Finally, the war would be under way — and the North would strike first and win.
CHAPTER FOUR
MASTER CONTROL AND REPORTING CENTER,
OSAN, REPUBLIC OF KOREA
SEVERAL HOURS LATER
Welcome, Madam Vice President, Admiral Allen, and our other distinguished guests,” the Korean Air Force officer began in excellent English. “It is a pleasure to welcome you to the Republic of Korea’s most advanced tactical air control facility on the opening day of the free world’s largest multinational air combat exercise.”
Vice President of the United States Ellen Christine Whiting bowed amidst a polite round of applause. Attending the briefing along with Vice President Whiting was Admiral William Allen, commander of U.S. Pacific Command, the officer in charge of all American military forces between North America and Australia. Accompanying them were a few aides and the chief of the Vice President’s Secret Service detail, Special Agent Corrie Law.
After walking around the facility and meeting a great number of the men and women working there, the distinguished visitors were led through the heavily guarded hallways and the massive vaultlike steel doors to the master command room itself. A thin, fit but older South Korean general officer stepped before them, bowed deeply, then began: “My name is Lieutenant General Park Yom, and I am chief of staff of the Republic of Korea Air Force. It is my very great pleasure to welcome you and conduct this tour of our newest and best command and control facility, a technological marvel and a true sign of friendship and cooperation between our nations in the defense of the free people of the Republic of Korea.
“We are in the Master Control and Reporting Center, which is the main joint American and South Korean military air traffic control center for South Korea. All military flights over the Korean peninsula are handled from this place. In case of war, this would serve as the main command and control center for military air operations. We are sixty feet underground, protected by a total of twenty feet of reinforced concrete, one foot of steel, three inches of Kevlar armor, an
d over thirty feet of earth. The center can withstand all but a direct nuclear hit. It is impervious to the effects of a nearby nuclear blast, and it can filter out massive quantities of biological and chemical warfare toxins. There is enough generator power for two weeks, enough emergency battery power for seven days, and enough air, water, fuel, and food to sustain two hundred occupants for two months.”
General Park motioned to the twelve large full-color digital displays on the wall behind him, covering a four-hundred-square-foot area. “We combine data from radar sites, airborne radars, and warships into a composite image of all air traffic covering over three million cubic miles of space, including over the Yellow Sea, the Sea of Japan, the northern East China Sea, the entire Korean peninsula, and parts of Japan, China, and Russia.”
Then the guests were seated in a small auditoriumlike area behind two rows of radar controllers at their consoles. “You are seated at the battle staff area,” General Park went on. “The senior controller and the deputy senior controller sit there, as well as assistants and communications officers. The senior controller’s position is rotated between American and Korean senior field-grade officers. On one side of the battle staff is the Tactical Control Operating Team section, which are the American Air Force officers in charge of American military flights, and on the other side is the Korean Air Combat Control Team, which is in charge of all Korean military flights.
“Behind you are the workstations for thirty staff officers, representing all the American and Korean military services, the United Nations Command, and many government and civilian defense-related agencies, who take reports from field commands and units and pass them to the senior controllers. Behind the staff area is the support staff area, including weather forecasters, security, communications technicians, and so forth. Above you is an observation room, which can be manned by myself or any other high-ranking officials and where directives can be passed down to the senior controller. We shall go up there in a moment to observe the opening battles of today’s exercises.”
