Politburo’s hands.”
“And this?” The KGB director’s beefy forefinger touched the sheet of paper.
“It will be transmitted to Fleet Headquarters in Vladivostok within the hour.”
Each man raised his glass to the other and then downed it with a single gulp.
Only the slide projector’s whirring fan cut through the silence. The two photographs shown side by side were remarkably sharp and full of detail, especially when one remembered that they had been taken by a satellite more than two hundred miles above the earth and moving at more than seventeen thousand miles an hour.
“All right, Blake. What’s your interpretation of these pictures?” The President’s voice sounded loud in the darkness. “Hell, I’ll admit that they just look like a couple of trains to me.”
Blake Fowler shook his head and then remembered that nobody could see the gesture. “Not a couple of trains, Mr. President. One train.”
“Explain.”
“The first slide, the one on the left, shows a loaded Chinese munitions train sitting in the railyards at Pyongyang. And the second slide, the one on the right shows that same train, still fully loaded, heading back across the border into Manchuria.”
“So what?” Putnam didn’t bother trying to hide the contempt in his voice. Blake’s growing intimacy with the President had rubbed his ego raw. “One lousy train goes back to China. Why bother showing us that?”
“Because, sir, that train crossed the border seven days ago. And we haven’t spotted a single shipment of Chinese arms or ammunition in North Korea since. My analysts and I believe that what we are seeing is a de facto withdrawal of the PRC’s covert support for the North Korean invasion.” Blake drew a breath. “And we believe that could offer us a chance to dramatically shift the balance of forces against the North Koreans.” He stopped.
The President’s voice showed more interest. “Go on, Blake.”
“If the Chinese have stopped their support, there must have been a falling out between them and the North Koreans, maybe temporary, maybe permanent. If the Chinese don’t regard Kim as their friend anymore, we may be able to move in.”
“What’ve you got in mind?”
“An overture to the Chinese, sir. An appeal for their aid in bringing this war to a close on acceptable terms.”
Putnam snorted derisively. “Jesus Christ, Fowler! You expect us to go begging hat in hand to the PRC? And then you expect them to just see the light and join the side of the angels?”
Blake felt himself flushing with anger. “No, I don’t. But I do expect the Chinese government to act in what it perceives as its own best interest. And I believe that we can convince them that lies in our corner.”
“How?”
“By offering them a free-trade agreement, loans, credits, and the kind of defensive military technologies they need — sophisticated surface-to-air missiles and antitank guided missiles.”
Several of the men and women in the darkened Situation Room tried to speak at the same time, but the President’s voice overrode the others. “Have you approached the South Koreans about this proposal?”
“Only at the staff level, Mr. President. Nothing higher than that.”
“I see.” Blake could see the outline of the President’s face in the ghostly glow given off by the slide projector, but he couldn’t read the Chief Executive’s expression. “What about the timing on this thing? We can’t go to Beijing while we’re still losing. George is right on that. It would look like we’re begging.”
“Agreed, sir. That’s why we’re suggesting that State, Treasury, Commerce, and Defense all develop the specifics necessary while we await results from Thunderbolt. If General McLaren’s plan succeeds, we’ve got the base we need to approach the Chinese.”
The President nodded and shifted slightly in his seat, turning to face the secretary of state. “Okay, Paul. What’s your reading on Blake’s idea? Go or no go?”
Bannerman looked carefully from one man to the other, ignoring Putnam’s insistent tug on his sleeve. He’d seen the signs of the shifting power base in the White House long ago. The secretary of state cleared his throat and spoke. “I fully concur with Dr. Fowler’s plan, Mr. President. I think it offers the best chance we’re going to get to keep this war from escalating beyond our control.”
The President nodded abruptly. “Okay, then. Blake, put your proposal in writing and have it on my desk by tomorrow morning. Then we can kick it around a little while we wait to see whether or not this Thunderbolt works.” He looked at his watch. “Now, you’ll have to forgive me, ladies and gentlemen, but I’ve go to run. Got a photo opportunity with the Boy Scout of the Year to take care of.” He paused, a cynical grin twisted on his face. “As you know, the business of government never ends.”
The NSC Crisis Team rose with him and remained standing while he left the room.
Kevin coughed and felt the thick, acrid smoke eddying through the room burn deep into his lungs. He rubbed his watering eyes and cursed softly. There wasn’t anywhere you could go to escape the smoke — not when the whole damned city was on fire. He scuttled over to where Montoya squatted, keeping low to avoid showing himself through the sandbagged window.
“India One Two, this is Echo Five Six, India One Two, this is Echo Five Six. Over.” The RTO took his finger off the transmit button and shrugged helplessly. “Nothing. I can’t get nothing, L-T Probably too many buildings in the way.”
Kevin nodded his understanding. Snarled communications were the rule when fighting in a city. Or so the manual said. The low-powered FM tactical sets issued for battalion, company, and platoon use needed good lines of sight to work, and good lines of sight were impossible to come by in Taejon’s concrete jungle of apartment complexes, department stores, and other high-rise buildings.
He spread the tourist map of the city he’d picked up at Battalion HQ only hours before and started reviewing his company’s defensive positions. He had minutes at most to make sure there wasn’t anything he’d overlooked — some fatal weakness that the North Koreans could exploit. The last word from Major Donaldson had been that the South Korean Reserve units holding on Taejon’s outskirts had been overrun. The NKs were on their way and could be expected at any moment. Kevin concentrated on the symbols sketched on the map.
Echo Company held a cluster of buildings on the southern side of Chungang-ro — Chungang Street — Taejon’s main east-west boulevard. Corporal McIntyre and 1st Platoon anchored the company’s right flank from a three-story apartment building with a view north along Inhyo Street. Kevin had put his CP there since it offered the best view. The three half-strength squads of Sergeant Geary’s 2nd Platoon were stationed in small shops along the center of the position. And Rhee’s 3rd Platoon, the KATUSAs, occupied buildings looking northwest — out over an open plaza built across the frozen Taejonchon River. Kevin frowned. He’d hoped to occupy the Chungang Department Store, right across the street from Rhee’s position, but he hadn’t had enough troops. Now it stood empty, available as a fire base for the first North Korean infantry to come along. In the limited time available, his men had only been able to liberally scatter a selection of explosive booby traps throughout the department store. That would slow the NKs, but it sure wouldn’t stop them.
Two of the battalion’s remaining companies were also on the line. Matuchek’s Alpha Company held the left flank, dug in from the river to past some place called the Dabinchi Night Club. Bravo Company held the right, in a position centered on the Taejon Railway Station. The other provisional unit, Foxtrot Company, was stationed to the rear as the battalion reserve and quick-reaction force.
Other infantry battalions stretched to either side across the city — a grab bag of assorted American and South Korean units, all worn down by weeks of near-continuous fighting. Kevin shook his head wearily. The scattergun briefing he’d gotten before moving Echo up to the line had shown the better part of three North Korean divisions moving toward Taejon — two infantry and one tank. So they’d be outnumbered by at least four or five to one. He wasn’t sure they could hold against those kind of odds, no matter how many times the rear-area brass said that Taejon would never be surrendered. Slogans like “They shall not pass” might sound inspiring to civilian ears, but the front-line combat soldier knew who paid the price for such fine phrases.
“Hey, L-T,” Montoya whispered, “OP Seven reports NK tanks and infantry moving down the street. Company strength.” He paused, listening, and then went on. “Six has movement, too. Another NK company at least. They wanna know what they should do.”
Kevin moved toward the window. “Tell ’em both to hang tight and stay out of sight.” He rose slowly to his
