“No dice, General. If your government wants to end these demonstrations, I suggest you rely on the police to do it. And if I were you, I’d tread more carefully in the way you go about it. If you’ve been following events back in the States at all, you know the Congress is giving the administration hell right now about our involvement over here.”
Park sat rigid in his chair for a moment. Then he stood abruptly. McLaren followed suit. “Then, General McLaren, I believe we have nothing further to discuss today. I shall inform my colleagues of your decision.”
McLaren picked up his uniform cap and briefcase. “Okay, you do that.”
“They will not be pleased. Perhaps our President will want to discuss the matter with your President.”
So they were going to try going over his head on this one? That wasn’t much of a surprise. But McLaren doubted they’d get any further with Washington than they had with him. “Fine. I’m sure they’ll find a great deal to discuss. In the meantime, your colleagues don’t have to be happy with my decision. They just have to live with it.”
He returned Park’s salute and headed out to his staff car. He had an inspection to conduct. And with the mood he was in, he sure as hell hoped the commander of the 4th Battalion, 7th Cavalry had everything ready.
CHAPTER 8
Intentions
The lights were out all over Pyongyang, leaving the city wrapped in a darkness broken only by the stars reflecting off the Taedong River. All its massive government buildings, monolithic statues, and towering apartment houses merged into simple patches of greater or lesser blackness — without feature, without clear line, without scale.
Kim Jong-Il smiled bitterly as he stood looking out over the city from his office. He knew that these periodic practice air raid alerts and blackouts had little military use. He’d seen the lowlight videotapes made by the American bombers striking Libya in 1986. Denying them the use of city lights as aiming points wouldn’t have much effect.
Still, the alerts served as an important instrument of political control. They demonstrated unity and discipline. They reminded the people of the sacrifices of the past and of the dangers as yet all around. After all, what significance could petty internal grievances have when compared to the threat of an aggressive, imperialist war machine?
Kim turned away from the windows, closed the heavy blackout drapes, and switched on his desk lamp. The small circle of light cast distorted shadows against the wood-paneled walls of his office — shadows he ignored. He’d wasted enough time in useless contemplation. Now was a time for action.
The agent Scorpion’s work had borne fruit beyond all his initial expectations. The bloody scenes in Seoul’s streets had shattered the South’s governing coalition, and they were driving the American Congress out of lockstep with its client state.
He had the wedge he’d sought. Now he had to make use of it.
Kim snapped open the sealed Defense Ministry folder sent over by special courier earlier that evening. It contained a thick sheaf of densely typed papers and annotated maps. The title page bore a simple, boldfaced legend:
Draft Operations Plan:
RED PHOENIX
Most Secret
The rumble and clatter of tank treads made it impossible to speak. Lieutenant General Cho Hyun-Jae glanced nervously at the guest beside him on the reviewing stand. Then he swung his eyes back front and allowed himself to relax minutely.
His guest didn’t seem angered or bored by the procession of battle-ready armored fighting vehicles Cho had arranged. On the contrary, Kim Jong-Il seemed pleased, almost excited. The hard, set lines around his mouth had softened somewhat, and Cho could see the momentary gleam of white teeth every time a T-62 thundered by the stand.
It was more a battle drill than a parade. A battalion’s worth of buttoned-up tanks pitched and rolled across the torn-up landscape at full throttle, spread out in platoon groups of four. The forty T-62s were followed by wave after wave of tracked BMPs and wheeled BTR personnel carriers, some towing mortars and light antitank guns. ZSU-23-4 Shilkas rolled along with this second echelon, their quad 23mm antiaircraft guns elevated and ready to fire into the black, threatening clouds that covered the sky.
Kim watched it all avidly, and Cho thanked the nonexistent gods that he’d arranged this realistic display of a motorized rifle regiment’s combat power instead of the traditional, lumbering military parade. Its effect on the Dear Leader was well worth the precious fuel it consumed.
As the last vehicles roared off the review ground and over a hill, Kim leaned closer and pitched his voice just high enough to carry over their fading engines. “Excellent, General. A most impressive display. Your men typify the five combat readiness guidelines enunciated by my father: tenacious revolutionary spirit; miraculous and elaborate tactics; strong physique; point-blank shooting; and ironbound regulations.”
Cho bowed his head, acknowledging the compliment. “Thank you, Dear Leader. I shall relay your approval to my troops.”
Kim nodded and half-turned to stare out again across the tread-torn ground. The silence seemed to stretch forever. Then, abruptly, without looking directly at Cho, he said, “Let’s take a walk together, General. We have much to discuss, you and I.”
For an awful moment the tall, broad-shouldered North Korean corps commander felt his stomach twist in on itself, but he forced himself to appear calm and unruffled. Logically he should have nothing to fear from this man. His military record was distinguished, he kept his personal life carefully uncluttered of any suspicious bourgeois vices, and he’d made his personal loyalties clear years ago by siding with the pro-Soviet faction of the General Staff and the Politburo — a faction the younger Kim headed. Still, Cho knew fear in the presence of this man who had the power to wipe away careers, lives, with the stroke of a pen or a raised voice. Kim was not always logical.
He followed Kim out onto the open ground. The two men walked for several minutes without speaking, paced by a small cluster of uniformed aides and a phalanx of Kim’s heavily armed plainclothes bodyguards, all of whom stayed well out of earshot.
At last Kim stopped, his eyes fixed on the muddy remains of a small, grassy hillock that had been crushed flat by Cho’s tanks. “Such power,” he half-whispered to himself.
Then he swung round to face Cho squarely. “Such power, General. Tell me, as commander of our Second Corps, you most directly confront our enemies, true?”
“Indeed, Dear Leader.”
Kim stepped delicately over a patch of soft ground. “So you understand the danger they pose to our Revolution?”
“Of course.” What was all this about? It reminded Cho of the political instruction classes of his school days.
“Your wife is well? She finds your new apartment in Changwang Street to her liking?”
Cho looked at the shorter man in surprise. Why the sudden change of subject? “Yes, Dear Leader. But then she’s always been fond of Pyongyang. She’s a city girl at heart.”
Kim smiled, showing his teeth. “Good. Good.”
He clasped his hands behind his back. “Tell me what you think of Red Phoenix, Comrade General.”
Cho shrugged. “I helped draft the plan during my last tour on the General Staff, Dear Leader. It was a good plan then and it’s a good plan now. In fact, I believe that it offers our best hope for a successful liberation of the South.” He frowned as one of Kim’s boots splashed mud across his uniform trousers.
