“So?”
“I was just wondering, sir — say we got a really small Nikon and one of those big kites, like the ones they have in some of the temples…”
“For Chrissake…” said Cahill.
“Well,” began Jordan defensively, “it was just a thought. We can’t see what they’re up to at night. They could be tunneling — again. Our infrared overflights didn’t detect any of those we found last year.”
“We found them, didn’t we?” challenged Cahill.
“Yes, sir, but more by good luck. An infiltrator spilled the beans, but normally they never reveal…”
“We’ve got seismic probes,” replied the general. “Ground sensors.”
“Yes, sir, but the problem is the moment the NKA go on maneuvers, we can’t distinguish a tunnel being dug from any number of other noises — heavy trucks, road-working equipment. All we get is tremor graphs.”
“You’re worrying too much,” said Cahill. “Winter-maybe — when the ground is hard enough for their armor. But not now in the monsoons. Rice paddies all flooded. Everything’d bog down.”
They were now completing the U-turn near the “Bridge of No Return.” On their left, a U.S. army truck sat fully gassed, motor running twenty-four hours a day, ready to back up and block the bridge. To their right stood the Y- shaped tree that had been trimmed for a clearer view across the DMZ and where thirty-one NKA regulars had come across in ‘76 to club and hack two Americans to death.
“Anyway,” continued Cahill, “we’re constantly patrolling the DMZ. We’ve got minefields right up to the wire. Fighter Command’s on a moment’s notice. Attack choppers are ready. Isn’t like it was in fifty, Dick. Moment Kim or any other gook puts his cotton-pickin’ finger over that ribbon, I’ll chop the goddamned thing off. What’s our G-2 say?”
“No unusual movement.”
“There you are.”
“But,” Jordan pressed, “there is this report from Major Tae. The ROK intelligence officer up here…”
“Yes, yes,” said Cahill impatiently. “I glanced at it before we left. Goddamned chopsticks aren’t as long as they used to be. Timber in Korea’s in short supply — always has been — so he figures all the wood saved goes into building more
“Yes, sir. We know their infantry, like the Vietcong used to, carries everything on their backs.”
“So do ours, Dick,” said Cahill. “That’s why we call ‘em ‘grunts.’ You’d grunt, too, with eighty pounds weighing you down.” But the general knew what Jordan meant. “Yes, yes, I know,” he said irritably. “ ‘Red Army’s two legs better than Americans’ four wheels.’ Right?” The car had passed the Munsan checkpoint. Suddenly its brakes squealed, the car skidding sideways in an earsplitting screech, headlight beams roiling with talc-fine dust. As custom decreed, the driver was allowing an old man in traditional white “pajamas” to cross the road, the man’s tall, wide-brimmed stovepipe hat a symbol of his status of country gentleman.
“I hate those stupid hats,” said Cahill, venting his fright at the car almost hitting the old man. “Ever see anything so goddamned ridiculous in all your life? What’s it good for? Damned horsehair won’t keep out water — won’t keep off the sun.” Jordan made vague noises of assent but was more interested in getting the general to think about Tae’s hunch than elders’ hats. Cahill anticipated him.
“Lookit, if an attack comes — to have any hope, any hope at all — it’s got to be hard and fast. Right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, and all those backpacks of yours are going to be worth squat — all unless armor clears the way. Right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any sign of armor — visual or ground sensor?”
“No, sir.”
“No — because it’s too damn wet. Moment a tank goes off a road, it’s in rice paddy. Sinks in the mud.” He paused. “How about the canaries — they okay?”
“Far as I know, sir.” Cahill was referring to the tunnels the NKA had dug beneath the DMZ during the seventies, which were later found and cemented shut except for a small, wedge-shaped peephole in each cement bung. A few yards away from each bung there was an ROK machine-gun post manned around the clock, and right by each peephole, a canary in a cage. As in the mines, the bird’s death would be an early warning in the event of gas attack.
“Tell you what,” said Cahill. “I’ll issue a bulletin on KBS TV and radio announcing that despite tomorrow’s Independence Day celebrations, South Korean defense forces remain vigilant to any incursion of the North.”
“General!” said Jordan, happily feigning shock. “That’s using the airwaves for willful propaganda.”
“Damn right,” Cahill smiled. “It’s true, too. We’ll run a few tanks through town tonight. Keep you and Tae happy,
Jordan laughed, but the worrier in him remained — as persistent as an allergy one can do nothing about. “So you think we should forget about the chopsticks?”
“Forget the chopsticks. There’s nothing to it,” said the general. “Chopsticks aren’t going to start a war.”
The general was right, chopsticks had nothing to do with it. The fuse that led to World War III would be lit by a misunderstanding over red ants.
CHAPTER SIX
Traditionally a Korean delicacy when slightly sauteed, the ants were sold downtown in glass jars by vendors scattered throughout the myriad alleys and side streets of Seoul’s brightly lit and bustling Myongdong district. Here, amid the spicy odors of
Only the night before, one of the South Korean patrols, continually on duty in the hills ringing Seoul, had clashed with six North Korean infiltrators. They had been intercepted while crossing the DMZ.
After a short, fierce firefight, not unusual along the DMZ, five of the infiltrators had been shot, one dying shortly after. South Korea’s CIOC (Counter-Infiltration Operations Command) was reasonably sure the six were from the NKA’s 124th guerrilla unit. It was this unit from which thirty-one North Korean commandos had penetrated the southern side of the DMZ on a bitterly cold January night during the infamous mission of ‘68, armed with AK-47 submachine guns and grenades, with express orders to assassinate President Park of South Korea. On the second day of the mission, four woodcutters saw them, notified local authorities, and the hunt was on. Even so, the guerrilla unit reached Pugak Mountain on Seoul’s northern outskirts, and charged the Blue House — official home of the president. Twenty-eight of the thirty-one North Koreans were killed in the ferocious gun battle that followed, rifle and machine-gun fire and bursting grenades echoing like strings of firecrackers in the hilly amphitheater around the city, causing several small brush fires. Two of the guerrillas managed to escape, but one, surname Kim, given names Shin Jo, no relation to the present General Kim, was caught. Trading his life against the certain fate of being shot as an infiltrator, Kim passed over to
