“He’s still transmitting, sir. This one is either very slow or very unpracticed.”
“The latter, I believe,” the NSP man said. “This man is no ordinary spy. He’s a big fish, and like all big fish he’s swum in the depths for years. I suspect he’s not happy at being this close to the surface.” He stopped, conscious of having been too talkative.
But the equipment operator hadn’t even really been listening. “He’s stopped!”
“You’re certain?”
An emphatic nod.
The NSP agent keyed his transmitter again. “Take him.”
The Special Forces captain finished attaching the short-fused plastic explosive, triggered it, and ducked back as the gift shop’s front door blew in. Two men in gas masks and carrying submachine guns rolled in through the opening, right behind the explosion. Others waited outside, covering every other possible exit.
Seconds passed. Then the captain heard a stun grenade go off and followed his men in. A stretcher team came close behind.
Rapid impressions filtered through his mind as he took the stairs to the second floor two at a time. Swirling smoke. Scorched wall hangings. And then a small room crowded with his troopers, a radio, and a body.
The captain lifted his gas mask and caught the faint whiff of almond still lingering in the air. “Report.”
“He’s dead, sir. Took a cyanide capsule before we tossed the stunner in.”
Undoubtedly true. These men were very competent. And completely trustworthy. “Never mind. We’ve got what we wanted.”
The heaters in the underground command bunker worked far too well, unlike most products of the North Korean workers’ state. And so Kim Jong-Il and the other Military Commission members sweltered in summerlike heat while above them Pyongyang’s streets lay buried under several feet of snow and ice. The sweat streaming down his face did not improve Kim’s temper.
“So, Colonel General Cho reports that his troops have crossed the Paekma River in no fewer than three places. Surely that is good news enough for you.”
“Indeed it is, Dear Leader. But…”
Kim frowned. He’d long suspected the speaker, the secretary of communications, of being a covert member of the party’s Chinese faction. He’d never been able to prove it, though. Not to his father’s satisfaction. Well, the old man was faltering. It wouldn’t be long before all the reins of power were firmly gathered in his hands. “But what? Come, come, Comrade Secretary, don’t be coy with us. What troubles you now?”
“Cho also reports that he has taken heavy casualties from imperialist air strikes, and that his supply lines are stretched to the limit. I question his ability to continue the advance until air superiority can be regained — ”
“That would be extraordinarily foolish!” Kim snapped. “Obviously, as a civilian, you cannot be expected to remember the vital role momentum plays in achieving victory, but I have not forgotten it.” He watched the communications secretary flush at the unjustified gibe. As a teenager the man had fought in the first Fatherland Liberation War — winning several medals for his heroic devotion to duty.
“In any event,” Kim continued, “I have directed our ambassador in Moscow to press our Russian friends for additional combat aircraft and pilots. With them in hand we shall sweep the skies clear of imperialist aircraft.”
Several of the old men around the table looked openly skeptical, and Kim made a mental note to have each of them watched more carefully.
An aide entered and bent low to whisper something in the ear of the Research Department’s director. The director signaled for Kim’s attention. “Dear Leader, I have urgent news from our agent in Pusan. His findings confirm preliminary conclusions our best analysts had already drawn from Soviet satellite photographs. The Americans are preparing an amphibious force for a descent somewhere along our coast. They have assembled enough ships to carry at least thirty-five thousand men.”
Murmurs swept around the table. Many present remembered the catastrophe of Inchon and the subsequent UN drive deep into North Korea. They wanted no repetition of that nightmare.
Kim Jong-Il sat and glared. The panicky old fools! They wavered and fretted at the first sign of difficulty. He turned to the admiral in charge of the Naval Command. “There should be no difficulty in any of this. Assemble your submarines and ambush the Yankees as they steam north. We’ll send their bandit Marines to a watery grave!”
A sudden silence greeted his words, broken at last only by the half-whispered words of the admiral. “I have no submarines left to send, Dear Leader. All the ones in the northern Yellow Sea have been sunk.”
Sunk? Every one of them? Kim grasped for words. “Why wasn’t I informed of this? Why didn’t you report it?”
“I have, Dear Leader.” The older man’s face was unreadable. “My reports on the current naval situation have been delivered to your headquarters daily.”
And probably held there by some underling fearful of his wrath, Kim knew. For the first time in months he felt unsure of his course. Events could be slipping out of his hands and that could be fatal. Most of these men bore him little love. With an effort he regained his composure. “I see. The road we must take is clear. We must acquire the naval forces we need from the Russians. They, at least, have plenty of submarines to spare.”
The oldest man at the table, a wizened old survivor of the guerrilla war against the Japanese, coughed delicately into a fragile, blue-veined hand. “First aircraft, and now ships as well. What will the Soviets demand of us in return for all these things? Do we risk handing over our Revolution and sovereignty for these pretty toys?”
“These ‘toys,’ Comrade Choi, are necessary to win this war.” Kim controlled his temper, though with great difficulty. Choi was close to his father. “And once we have won this war, we shall rule Korea. Not the Russians. Not the Chinese. Only the Party and its Great Leader!”
No one debated his assertion, but Kim sensed their continued fear and indecision. He closed his folder abruptly. Very well, then. Enough was enough. They wouldn’t accomplish any more this day. “This meeting is adjourned, comrades. We will reconvene tomorrow to review the measures necessary to deal with this seaborne enemy threat.”
He left the room without waiting for their reaction. There were urgent signals to be sent to Moscow.
The two men sat close together in the vastness of the high-ceilinged office. Oil paintings depicting various triumphs of Russian arms — Borodino, Stalingrad, Kursk, and others — covered the walls in martial splendor. Thick curtains blocked any view of Moscow’s empty nighttime streets.
An opened bottle of vodka and a half-eaten loaf of black bread sat on a silver tray next to the two men. Both liked to pretend that they were of simple peasant stock. In reality, both had risen to rank through the intertwined workings of favoritism and seniority, carried higher and higher within the Party — the Soviet Union’s version of the Czarist aristocracy.
“Then we are in agreement, comrade?” the minister of defense asked.
The head of the KGB locked his gaze on the other man. “Indeed, my friend, Kim Jong-Il’s requests must be met. The war is too evenly balanced for any other decision.”
“But the Politburo will vacillate. It may take days to make our ‘colleagues’ see reason on this matter. And such a delay could be fatal to our cause.”
The defense minister’s assertion hung unchallenged in the air. At last the KGB director nodded his agreement.
The minister smiled and directed his colleague’s attention to a single sheet of paper resting on the low table between them. “I am glad you see the need for swift action, Viktor Ivanovitch. I have prepared an order that should satisfy the most urgent of friend Kim’s needs. Read it.”
The other man did so and sat back in his chair, a faintly troubled look on his face. “You’re quite sure, comrade, that this order can be kept, ah, confidential?”
The defense minister laced his fingers across his stomach and nodded solemnly. “Without a doubt.” He reached across the table and tapped the piece of paper. “Should matters go awry, this can be denied. Whatever happens can be explained away as a tragic accident of positioning.”
“And the planes?”
“Unfortunately, we cannot hope to handle that so… discreetly. The movement of whole squadrons of our finest combat aircraft will be a much more, ah, public, matter. No, I fear the decision will have to be left in the full
