“Go on, Sergeant.” McLaren kept his voice as gentle as he could. Corey had never been in combat before.
“I’ve lost a lot of my boys, General. Captain Miller’s dead. Took a round in the head as we set off. I lost more out there. Kip. Mike Andrews. A lot.” McLaren could see the tears in his eyes.
He reached out and put a hand on Corey’s shoulder. “You did real well, Sergeant. I want you to know that.” He looked around the shattered room. “Now let’s get the fuck out of here over to the Ops Room. This ain’t the end of it. Not by a long shot.”
The arc-lit compound outside looked as though it had gone through a full-scale pitched battle. McLaren could see bodies dotting the snow-covered walkways and parade grounds. Some were surrounded by clusters of medics and stretcher bearers, but others, too many others, were simply being covered with white sheets. He shook his head wearily. They’d been caught flat-footed and a lot of his men had already paid for it. Smoke from a burning building somewhere off out of sight drifted south, pushed by the north wind.
The Operations Room was in complete chaos when McLaren came in through the door. Half-dressed staff officers crowded the room, each trying to do two or three things at once. Some were slapping situation maps up on the walls and ripping them down almost as fast. Others were standing around in small groups, demanding in loud, high-pitched voices to know just what the hell was going on. He scowled. These idiots were going to have to learn how to act calmly during a crisis. He looked around for his aide and found him standing in one corner working to sort things out.
Hansen put down the phone he’d been holding. “Glad to see you’re all right, General.”
“Yeah. Me, too.” He could feel himself starting to shake. Always happened after a fight. “Did they hit anything else?”
Hansen nodded. “Just got the word. They got into the Signals Room before the alarm went out. Killed everyone in there with knives or their bare hands. And then they blew the shit out of our commo gear. Major Gunderson said to tell you that they’re routing our traffic through the Navy until we can get spares set up out of storage.”
“That it?”
“No way, General.” Hansen pointed to another map just going up. It was a map of Seoul dotted with hastily drawn red circles. “Each one of those dots represents a reported terrorist or commando attack. All carried out in the last half hour.”
“Jesus.” McLaren whistled softly. He stepped forward to get a better look. “Give me the details.”
Hansen flipped through his scribbled notes. “Okay. First, an attack on our embassy.” He looked somber. “They broke past the marine guards and killed the ambassador, his family, and a lot of the senior staff. There’s still fighting going on, but it’s just a mop-up operation now.”
McLaren could feel himself growing cold as Hansen’s recitation continued. A raid on the South Korean Ministry of Defense. The main Seoul telephone exchange blown up. Senior government officials murdered in their own homes, including a South Korean corps commander and several Air Force generals. Only one conclusion fit the pattern he could see developing.
He broke away from Hansen and plunged into the middle of the Ops Room, looking for Gunderson, his duty signals officer. “Sam! Drop whatever the hell you’re doing and send an alert signal to all commands!”
The tall, thin Tennessean looked up from an equipment inventory list. “Sir?”
“You heard me, Major. Get off your ass and — ” McLaren was interrupted by a huge, rattling explosion that shook the room. Some of his officers dived under their desks, but others followed him in a rush to the window. There, off to the west, an orange fireball several hundred feet high roared into the night sky.
Then, suddenly, the lights all across the compound winked out, leaving everything in darkness. And McLaren could see the lights going out all across Seoul. A power loss or a government-ordered blackout? They could now hear the air raid sirens wailing.
McLaren nodded and turned to an open-mouthed Major Gunderson. “Clear enough for you? Get the word out to all commands and then to Washington. Tell them we’re at war, if they don’t already know it by now. And then get to the goddamned shelters.”
McLaren pulled Hansen out of the tangle of officers heading for cover. “Doug, get the word out for me. I want the field headquarters activated and my chopper ready to go. I’ll be damned if we’re all going to get stuck here while there’s a war on.”
Hansen nodded and turned away, but McLaren stopped him again. “Oh, Doug? One more thing.”
“Yes, General?”
“Merry Christmas.” They ducked as a string of explosions rattled across the compound.
CHAPTER 21
Wave One
Chun Pak-Lee was tired. It had been a long flight, and he was overdue at the navigation ship. He had increased speed, but with this plane that didn’t mean much.
The plane in question was an An-2. NATO had assigned it the name “Colt,” but it should have been “Barrel.” It was a biplane, an honest-to-God biplane, and if Lee didn’t think that was unusual in an age of jet fighters, it was only because of his exhaustive training. He knew what the craft could do, and it was perfect for this mission.
The Colt had excellent low-altitude and low-speed characteristics, could carry a large load, and was cheap and simple to operate. It was designed in Russia, but the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea had received many of them. One of its strengths, though, was not speed. Its frame and fuselage were steel, but its wings were covered with fabric.
He
The water flowed by him, less than a hundred feet away. He had to stay low to avoid visual and radar detection. It was a clear night but there was little moon, and he saw the water more as a dark mass than moonlit waves. The air was bumpy, especially this close to the surface, and the strain of holding such a low altitude for over two hours was tremendous.
There it was! A light on the horizon. He made a minor course correction, then pressed a button that made a directional light flash forward under the fuselage. It was answered. Good. It was his boat.
The light on the horizon was a North Korean fishing boat, loaded with navigational gear. It was much too sophisticated for normal use, but it would provide the landmark he needed. For precise timing he needed precise positions, and the biplane’s navigational gear wasn’t up to it.
He marked his time overhead and made a rapid mental calculation. As Lee adjusted his speed, he waggled his wings to his comrades below, and turned to his final heading.
All right. Nine minutes to the objective. He called back to the rest of the troops, then started his final procedures. He put the few maps and documents he had in a weighted pouch and tossed them out the window. He checked his own assault rifle and grenades, then tightened his harness.
The coast was exactly as he expected it to be. He’d seen enough pictures and maps to know every point and light on it. He lowered his altitude even more, until he was skimming the wavetops. He called back, “Five minutes!”
As he crossed the coast, Lee started his approach list. Climb to thirty meters. Cut engine, open fuselage fuel dump valves. That would lessen the risk of fire. The sudden silence was almost restful after the hours of noise. It would be a short rest.
Tony heard someone screaming. He rolled over and considered the issue. The party was getting loud, but nobody should scream like that. But he wasn’t at the party. He was asleep. Someone was screaming in his room. He opened his eyes. Nobody was in his room, so the screaming was outside. It wasn’t screaming. It was the alert siren. If this was someone’s idea of a joke …
The phone rang once and he grabbed it. “Captain Christopher here.”
“Sir, this is Luther at ops. We have a general recall. This is not a drill.”
