McLaren stood outside his camouflaged command vehicle, listening to the distant sounds of war. Heavy artillery rumbled far off, a concussive, rolling series of muffled
He glanced at his watch: 1359 hours, local time. And as he listened, the noise faded and then fell away entirely — leaving behind a strange, empty silence. With a sudden shock McLaren realized that it was the first real, waking quiet he had known since the war began. His days and nights had been filled with the background drumbeat of war — artillery barrages, clanking tank treads, roaring truck engines, static-filled bursts of frantic radio voices, and the distant crackle of small-arms fire.
And now it was over.
Hansen swung down out of the converted armored personnel carrier. He grinned. “All units are checking in, General. As far as we can tell, the cease-fire is in place.”
McLaren bowed his head, genuinely praying for the first time in years. He hadn’t felt able to do so with conviction since his wife’s funeral. But now the words came freely. He thanked God for granting his soldiers a victorious peace, and he prayed for all the dead and wounded, for all those who had suffered so terribly to win that peace. And when he had finished, he raised his head, surprised to find his eyes wet.
McLaren wiped them roughly and blew his nose. “Goddamned winter colds. Always get ’em.”
He looked away across the snow-covered fields, then straightened his shoulders. “Okay, Doug. Let’s get back to it. We’ve got a hell of a lot of work to do before those Chinese paratroopers arrive to make sure this thing stays over.”
Hansen saluted and followed his general in out of the cold winter air.
A cold wind whipped the tent flap and Colonel General Cho Hyun-Jae shivered, despite the feeble warmth emitted by a charcoal burner standing in one corner. The chill he felt had its origins in his despair and not the weather.
They had been defeated. Defeated and disgraced. The ugly words rang endlessly and uselessly in his mind. He had been able to think of nothing else in the three days since the communique arrived from Pyongyang — the first real signal he’d received from the high command since shortly after the imperialist counterattack began.
The tersely worded message still lay open atop a desk crowded with crumpled maps, radio gear, and his personal weapons. He stared it unseeing, the cold phrases burned into his mind:
Cease all offensive operations immediately. Cease-fire with opposing forces effective 1400 hours, 20 January. The People’s Army will stack all arms, destroy or render useless all heavy weapons and equipment, and move north. List of approved withdrawal routes follows. Troops from the People’s Republic of China will serve as escorts and observers of withdrawal process.
Pyongyang’s orders and the reported death of his patron, Kim Jong-Il, had caught Cho like a thunderclap. In all his years of service, nothing had ever prepared him for the possibility of defeat and still less for abject surrender. It was literally unthinkable. The Korean People’s Army had never known defeat in battle.
Or so its propaganda said, Cho thought.
Reality taught a different lesson. The imperialist counterattack had proved impossible to resist. The enemy moved too fast, supplies were nonexistent, and worst of all, the fascists had complete control of the air. Cho hadn’t seen a friendly aircraft in days.
And now this. His eyes focused again on the message. He had failed — failed his men, failed his country, and failed his Great Leader.
Outside, those few staff officers he had left alive were working diligently to carry out his last orders. Under the eyes of Chinese “peacekeepers,” they were overseeing the destruction of every tank, armored personnel carrier, and artillery piece left to the First Shock Army. Others marshaled the pitiful remnants of his once-proud divisions in temporary holding camps, awaiting the word to march north weaponless.
Cho clenched his fists. That was the final humiliation — to be shepherded home under the eyes of the Chinese like prisoners. And home to what fate? He had no illusions about his own destiny, but what of the thousands of men he commanded? What would happen to them? What would happen to his country?
Even now he found himself unable to imagine a nation led by anyone other than the two Kims. For forty years the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea had been governed by their will and their will alone. Every aspect of public and private life had been regulated by their desires. Now all that was gone — vanished as if it had never been. The Dear Leader was dead, a heroic martyr to the Revolution, they said, and the Great Leader had retired from active government, too ill and sick at heart to carry on. Cho’s whole world had changed in the blink of an eye.
“Comrade General?” The voice of his aide, Captain Sung, startled him. He’d lost track of time. It must be nearly sundown.
“Come in.” Cho stood and straightened his uniform. Appearances must be preserved at all costs.
The tent flap opened, admitting a gust of frigid air, Lieutenant General Chyong, and an officer he didn’t recognize, a tall, gaunt-faced man in a crisp, unwrinkled uniform.
Under layers of fatigue and dirt, Chyong’s face looked as if it had been carved from stone. “I’m sorry to intrude, Comrade. But Senior Colonel Yun” — he pointed to the newcomer — ”has just arrived from Pyongyang with important dispatches.”
Cho couldn’t hide his surprise. “From Pyongyang? How is that possible?”
Yun clicked his heels sharply and bowed. “The Chinese People’s Liberation Army was kind enough to arrange my safe passage through enemy lines.”
“Then your mission must be urgent indeed.” Cho felt colder still. The Chinese bore him little love.
“Indeed it is, Comrade General.” Yun reached into his tunic and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I have special orders for this headquarters from the Korean Workers’ Party.”
There was a deadly formalism behind the man’s polite words, and Cho suddenly realized that the colonel’s uniform bore the insignia of the Political Security Bureau — the secret police organization responsible for ensuring the ideological purity of the armed forces. With trembling fingers Cho reached out and took the paper from Yun’s hand.
It was what he had expected since that first message from Pyongyang arrived.
Cho looked up. “This arrest order applies to General Chyong as well?”
Yun nodded. “Yes, Comrade General. I am commanded to take both of you back to Pyongyang to stand trial before a Workers’ Court.”
Chyong interrupted for the first time and demanded, “On what charge?”
The colonel eyed him coldly for a moment before replying, “On charges of high treason, of conniving with the enemy, and of deliberately engineering defeat.”
Chyong’s anger overrode any other consideration. “What fools have put together that tissue of lies?”
“The new General Secretary of the Party and his new minister of public security. And you would do well to remember to show them the proper respect.” Yun’s hand dropped to his holstered pistol.
Cho laid a hand on his subordinate’s shoulder, restraining him as Chyong bit back a bitter curse. “And why have they chosen us for this singular treatment?”
The colonel chose his words carefully. “It is felt in Pyongyang that the ‘masterful’ strategic plan of our departed Dear Leader was” — he paused — “poorly executed.”
Yun spread his hands and stared into Cho’s eyes. “You and Lieutenant General Chyong commanded the main elements of this offensive. Its success or failure hinged on your actions, your skills.”
“We did everything possible to ensure success,” Chyong answered heatedly. “We were defeated by a combination of superior air and naval power. Our ground forces performed superbly. Nothing more could have been asked of them. Look at our rates of advance, at the casualties we inflicted on the enemy. If you want scapegoats, find them in Pyongyang. By every objective standard, General Cho and I have — ”
“Comrade General, please.” Yun’s voice was ice cold. “The issue is not what was done, but what was not done. The liberation failed, and that is enough to convict you a thousand times over.”
He looked back at Cho, who still stood motionless. “In any event, that is unimportant here. For the moment
