Oh, shit. He should have remembered that from the briefing paper they’d given him back in the States. It had just slipped out of his brain somewhere along the way.
“Right. I suppose that’s because we’ll be fighting from bunkers and the other fortifications up at the DMZ — if it ever comes to that.” Jesus, that sounded professorial as all hell.
Pierce eyed him calmly. “Yes, sir. That’s about the size of it. Plus the fact that mechanized stuff doesn’t do too well plowing through rice paddies or trying to climb the bastard-steep hills they’ve got around here.”
Kevin nodded as if Pierce was just confirming everything he’d known all along. He had the uncomfortable feeling, though, that he hadn’t fooled anyone — and certainly not the platoon sergeant.
He’d better get out of here before he said anything else that was laughably ignorant. He clasped his hands behind his back. “Well, Sergeant, the platoon looks fine. Carry on with today’s schedule. See me in my quarters after chow tonight, and we’ll go over the plans for the rest of this week. Okay?”
Pierce saluted. “Yes, sir.” The sergeant wheeled to face the troops still standing in ranks. “All right, you heard the lieutenant. You know what you’re supposed to be doing. Now, move.” The troops broke ranks — the polished image of unity and order vanishing in a split second, changing instead into a milling crowd of individuals who just happened to be wearing the same clothes.
Kevin looked around him, trying hard to conceal his uncertainty. He wasn’t ready for this. By rights he should be sitting at a desk on a base near some little German village, evaluating the latest intelligence reports coming in from across the Iron Curtain. Korea hadn’t been in his plans at all.
Damn it, it just wasn’t fair. He’d joined the ROTC to help pay for college and to see the world. But not to wind up making an ass out of himself in front of a bunch of tough, professional soldiers. And he had a sinking feeling that was precisely what he was doing so far.
Pierce’s deep voice broke into Kevin’s thoughts. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. It isn’t really as difficult as it might seem. You’ve got a good group of troops here. I’ve worked ’em hard and they’re ready for just about anything.” Kevin nodded. The men of his new command might be ready. But he sure as hell wasn’t.
CHAPTER 7
Reports
Cigarette smoke fogged the small, wood-paneled conference room, and Blake Fowler, his eyes watering, wondered why so many people in the intelligence community still smoked. Was it nerves or just the desire to look tough?
He could barely make out the wall clock through the haze. It was just after five in the evening. Outside the Old Executive Office Building’s Victorian walls and gables, Washington’s streets were filling up as tens of thousands of career government workers headed home — fighting their way through traffic that seemed to get worse with every passing day. Fowler laughed inwardly. At least this job kept him from sitting behind the wheel of an immobile car.
He looked around the crowded conference table. Almost everyone in the Korean Interagency Working Group had arrived. First, Mike Dolan from the CIA, a middling-tall, pug-nosed Boston Irishman with hair as black as night and an infectious devil-may-care grin. Fowler had always thought Dolan looked more like a middleweight boxer than a spy, and he had the feeling that was how the CIA agent wanted it. In contrast, plump, smooth-featured, pipe- smoking Alan Voorhees looked exactly like what he was, an academic turned Department of Commerce bureaucrat — complete with stylish Adam Smith tie and expensive leather briefcase.
Voorhees was deep in conversation with a tall, ramrod-straight black man who would never be mistaken for a mere bureaucrat. Even in a pin-striped, double-breasted suit, Brigadier General Dennis Scott looked as though he belonged in uniform. Fowler knew the Defense Intelligence Agency representative was nearing fifty, but only the gray speckled through his hair provided the slightest clue to his age. Scott still left younger opponents gasping for air on the squash courts near his Falls Church home.
Waspish little Carleton Pickering of the National Security Agency was barely visible beyond the general. Pickering’s keen eyes, thick, bushy eyebrows, and fussy, precise voice had been a Washington intelligence community fixture for years. The tiny, fox-faced analyst had an uncanny ability to turn the tiniest fragments of raw intelligence into a polished and plausible picture of enemy intentions, activities, and capabilities.
The door suddenly slammed shut behind the Pentagon’s representative, a bluff, hearty Navy captain named Ted Carlson. He swaggered to the corner coat rack, shrugged off his damp overcoat, and then whipped off his plastic-covered uniform cap. Water droplets cascaded from the cap onto the carpet. Carlson grinned at his startled colleagues and took an empty chair near Fowler.
One man wasn’t there. Tolliver, the prep school kid from the State Department, was late again — as usual. Fowler had called State to find out where he was, only to be told by Tolliver’s secretary that he was in another meeting and that she wasn’t sure when, or even if, he could get there. Well, Tolliver could play catch-up on his own time.
Fowler rapped gently on the table, breaking through a hum of quiet shoptalk. “We’ve got a fair amount of material to cover this evening, gentlemen. So let’s get the show on the road. I, for one, would like to get home before midnight.”
General Scott smiled. “Not going to wait for our little friend from Foggy Bottom?” He didn’t seem too upset by the prospect.
Pickering leaned forward, a slight smile on his narrow face. “I don’t think Tolliver is likely to get here anytime soon. I hear the Secretary’s given him a new job — he’s working on the American desk these days.”
Fowler and the others chuckled softly. It was an old joke but just true enough to stay funny. State Department “desks” were charged with keeping track of the issues and interests of particular countries. And the other agencies and departments with foreign policy responsibilities often wished that State had a similar organization to protect American interests — interests they sometimes felt were overlooked by the striped-pants diplomats in Foggy Bottom.
As the laughter died down, Fowler looked over at the CIA’s representative on the Working Group. “Mike, why don’t you kick things off tonight.” When they’d first assembled the group, he’d asked Dolan to keep them up to speed on current events behind the scenes in Seoul. It had been a natural assignment. All the men sitting around the table had some measure of expertise in Asian political and military affairs, but the CIA had the best collection of sources in the region.
Dolan stubbed his cigarette out in an ashtray. “Yeah, okay.” He pushed the ashtray away. “I got a telex from our people just before I came here tonight.”
“Things are still fairly quiet in the streets. But that won’t last long. NSP says the students are planning more demonstrations. And our people over there confirm that. The government’s tried making police sweeps of Seoul National University, but the leaders they need to grab have all gone underground.” Dolan handed the multipage telex he’d summarized over to Fowler.
“What about the official report they promised on the massacre?” Voorhees looked as though he really believed it might solve their Korean problem.
Dolan snorted. “Our sources say it’s going to be released tomorrow. But it sure as hell isn’t going to improve the situation.”
He waved a hand toward Fowler. “You called that one right, Blake. It looks like they’re going to try to blame some lowly police officer for the order to fire. And he very conveniently got himself killed in the riot.”
Grim laughter from the other members of the Working Group interrupted him.
“And just in case no one buys that, they’re going to announce the simultaneous resignation of the Home Affairs minister. Apparently, he’s been chosen to play the part of the sacrificial lamb.”
General Scott cleared his throat. “Goddamnit, that’s not going to settle anything. I’ve met the man’s deputy and he’s even more of a hard case than his boss. The bastard’s probably the one who really gave the police orders to meet that demonstration with force.”
Dolan nodded. “You’ve got it right, Denny. What’s more, the students and opposition leaders know that as well as we do — probably better. The trouble is, nothing short of a complete government surrender will satisfy them
