government tries to bring regular troops in to crush the rioters.”
He swung round to face Hansen. “Now, we can’t afford to let that happen. For a variety of reasons I don’t want to wake up one morning and read about another Seoul massacre, especially not one committed by troops nominally under my command. So I want to know what the government’s up to before anything like that happens.”
Hansen nodded his understanding.
“Okay, then. Now I don’t want our South Korean officers to know I’ve tightened our reporting procedures because my relations with the government and the General Staff are damned tenuous at best. If they hear we’re ‘spying’ on them, it’d piss them off even more. And that’s something I really don’t need at this stage.”
McLaren finished. “All right, Captain, you have your orders. Any questions?”
“No, sir.”
“Okay, dismissed. And good luck.”
Hansen saluted, wheeled, and left to hit the road. He had a lot of ground to cover in the next several days.
McLaren watched the door close behind his aide and turned back to stare out the window again. He had a feeling that there was something ugly out there just waiting to pounce. Something worse than the endless rioting he’d already seen. But what the hell was it?
CHAPTER 17
Operation Purify
As his armored personnel carrier clattered around a gentle curve, General Chang stood high in an open hatch to look back along the road. The hundreds of APCs, trucks, and tanks carrying three battalions of his division stretched behind him in a rumbling, four-kilometer-long column, their dimmed headlights casting dancing shadows across ice-covered rice paddies beside the highway.
He glanced at his watch and then over to the right at the dark, narrow band that marked the Imjin River. They were on schedule, just minutes away from the small town of Sonu. From there a short drive would take the column to the Main Supply Route, Highway 1. Once on the MSR, they would be just forty kilometers from the outskirts of Seoul — a distance he planned to cover in less than three hours.
Chang dropped back down into the APC’s red-lit interior. He wormed his way past the radioman and flak- vested bodyguards to a small, hinged table covered with maps showing their route to the capital. His aide had just penciled in a small dot to show the regiment’s position. They were almost up to the next security checkpoint.
Without looking up from the map Chang reached out and took the papers his aide offered. He thumbed through them, smiling slightly. So far at least, Hahn’s forged movement orders had held up beautifully. Then his smile disappeared. The papers were damp. Chang glanced at his aide and frowned as he saw that the man was sweating like a pig, with dark stains discoloring his tunic collar and underarms. It was warm inside the crowded APC, but not that warm. Was the man afraid? Chang’s nostrils wrinkled in disgust and he turned away toward the front of the troop compartment. He had no time for cowards now.
The general climbed back up through the hatch to let the cold night air flow over him. Within four hours his troops would be fanning out across Seoul. And an hour after that, he, Chang Jae-Kyu, the son of a rice farmer, would be the new president of the Republic of Korea.
Chang smiled at the thought. Yes, he would be the president. And he would do precisely what had to be done to restore order to his nation’s troubled cities. Many of the rebellious students and workers would die, but their deaths would bring countless others to their senses. Then, with calm restored, he and his fellow officers would reform society — bolstering the sense of discipline, self-restraint, and respect for authority that had characterized Korea for countless generations.
He had no doubt that the foreign traders would return once all that had been accomplished. But they would trade on his terms, without arrogant demands that Korea surrender its sovereign right to govern itself as it pleased. Chang shook his head, cutting off that train of thought. It was pleasant to contemplate, but first he and his three thousand troops had more immediate work to do — work that would certainly require speed and determination, and work that might well require gunfire, grenades, bayonets, and blood.
Chang straightened as the APC came over a small rise a few hundred yards from Sonu. He could see barricades, and sandbagged machine gun nests blocking the road ahead. They’d reached the next security checkpoint.
He leaned down in through the hatch and signaled the driver to stop. His radioman was already ordering the rest of the regimental column to halt. Chang swung himself down off the APC and dropped lightly onto the road. He pulled his phony travel orders out of his pocket and strode resolutely forward to speak with the Special Forces lieutenant commanding the roadblock.
The phone rang, jerking McLaren awake and upright in bed with a muttered curse. He’d been up late checking over plans for the next scheduled military exercise. He fumbled on the nightstand for the phone.
“McLaren.”
“Sorry to wake you, General.” It was Doug Hansen. “But I’m afraid we have a situation developing.”
McLaren looked at the luminous dial of his watch. It was past two A.M. “Go on.”
He could hear Hansen suppressing a yawn. “I just got a call from one of our battalion COs up near the Z. One of his observation posts has reported seeing South Korean troops leaving their base and heading south. The Twelfth Mechanized Infantry Regiment. They’re part of the 4th Infantry Division, commanded by a General Chang. And that’s not an authorized movement, General.”
McLaren threw the covers aside and swung out of bed, reaching for his pants. “How long ago did they leave, Doug?”
“About two hours ago. It took some time for the report to get passed through channels.” Hansen’s voice was apologetic.
“Shit.” McLaren cradled the phone with his shoulder while bending over to tie his shoes. “Hell, they could be halfway to Seoul by now.”
“Yes, sir.”
McLaren started buttoning up his shirt. “Okay, Doug. I’ll be down in the Operations Room in two minutes, and I want all the details you can dig up on that regiment and this Chang character. If I’m going to get on the horn and ream that bastard General Park out properly, I want to know what I’m talking about.” He hung up.
Goddamnit. He’d warned the South Korean government not to try using their military to fight the rioters. But it looked like they’d gone ahead and decided to try it anyway. He’d just have to hope that an early-morning phone call to the chairman of the South Korean Joint Chiefs of Staff would be enough to persuade them to pull the troops back to base before any shooting started.
McLaren snapped his bedside lamp on and leaned over to stare into the mirror. He ran a hand over his face, feeling the rough stubble. Well, there wasn’t time to shave. He threw on his uniform jacket and headed for the door.
The Eighth Army Operations Room was already crowded with half-asleep staff officers getting in each other’s way. McLaren paused in the door, looking for Hansen. Christ, what a zoo.
There. He saw his aide on the phone at a desk across the room. He plunged into the room, working his way past his officers and nodding as they greeted him.
Hansen saw him and put the phone down. “Good morning, General.” He handed McLaren a file folder. “That’s what we’ve got on this General Chang, and the switchboard is waiting to put your call through on General Park’s private line. He’s not at his headquarters.”
Not at his headquarters? That was strange. If the South Korean government was conducting a major military move, you’d expect its JCS chairman to be at his post — even if it was in the middle of the night. McLaren filed that away mentally as something to wonder about later. There were more immediate concerns.
He leafed through Chang’s personnel record. “Give me a quick rundown on this guy. What’s he like?”
