vendors along the sidewalks were hastily packing away their goods, and department store clerks swarmed alongside them hurriedly unrolling steel mesh screens to cover display windows showing the latest Western fashions. Other drivers had gotten out of their cars and stood trying to see what had caused the tie-up.
By the time he’d gone just a couple of hundred yards, the reason for the traffic jam was obvious. Several hundred helmeted South Korean riot police had blocked off the whole multilane boulevard. Some were putting up crowd control barricades while others started waving cars off onto some of the smaller east-west roads feeding into Sejong-Ro. Bulky armored cars mounting water cannon and tear gas grenade launchers were parked behind the police line. McLaren could see the walled U.S. embassy compound several hundred feet past the barricades.
It’s like damned clockwork, he thought. It’s September in Seoul, so it must be time for another friggin’ student demonstration. Another few months of tear gas, rocks, and a bunch of puppydog kids yelling their heads off for “democracy” and “economic rights” — things they had heard about but didn’t really understand. There had been three already, all in the week since classes started. Each had been large and well organized, and each had been bigger than the one before.
He squinted up into the dazzling noontime sky. Seoul’s skyscrapers cast giant, gloomy shadows across Sejong Street, but wherever they left an opening, the sun seemed murderously hot. Bad time for a demonstration — “mob weather” they called it. The time when hot, muggy weather and harsh sunlight could drive people crazy, could make them snap without the slightest warning.
McLaren kept walking toward the police line. An officer — a lieutenant by his bars — braced and saluted him. McLaren returned the salute. The officer, of course, knew him on sight.
The lieutenant smiled. “Good morning, General McLaren. How can I be of service?” His English was pretty good, almost accentless.
“Well, for one thing, I’d appreciate it if some of your men here could get my staff car out of that mess back there and through your barricades. I’ve got a meeting with your President and Joint Chiefs up at the Blue House in just a few minutes.”
The lieutenant snapped to attention. “At once, sir.” He turned and snapped a string of orders in Korean that sent two of his troopers jog-trotting down the street toward McLaren’s car. Then he turned back to McLaren. “We will have your vehicle through this obstruction shortly. And, if I might suggest, sir, it would be a good thing to leave this place as soon as possible. We are expecting a… how do you say… a ‘spot of trouble’ presently.”
McLaren looked up the street. “Yeah. I heard there was supposed to be a demonstration today, but my liaison officer told me it was expected further southeast, near the cathedral.”
“It did start there, sir, but the rioters have broken past our barriers and they are marching in this direction. We are most concerned about this disturbance. Several Combat Police have already been injured. One group was isolated, surrounded, stripped of their equipment, and badly beaten.”
McLaren frowned. And how many kids have you guys put in hospitals, today? But it wouldn’t be a good idea to ask that question aloud. Instead he just nodded. “Sounds bad, all right.”
The South Korean officer kept smiling, but his smile seemed a little too fixed, and he kept swallowing. McLaren couldn’t figure out if the officer was more rattled by the presence of Commander Combined Forces-Korea so near a demonstration, or by the demonstration itself.
He eyed the men along the police line carefully. Christ, what a bunch of green kids. They all had their helmet visors up, but their uniforms were soaking up the heat. They hadn’t formed ranks yet. They were just standing around in small groups, talking, and although he couldn’t understand much Korean, their voices made one thing damned clear. These kids were as nervous as a preacher waiting in line at a cathouse.
Then he saw the kicker. The thing he should have seen right away. Half these Combat Police conscripts weren’t carrying their usual riot shields, nightsticks, and tear gas guns. They had very real M16s slung over their shoulders. And friggin’ bayonets, too.
McLaren’s face tightened and he leaned forward to stare right into the police officer’s eyes. He kept his voice low and hard. “Jesus Christ, Lieutenant. Just what the hell is going on here?” He stabbed a finger toward the fully armed troopers. “Riot troops with rifles? What stupid bastard ordered that?”
The Korean stared at McLaren. At an inch over six feet, the broad-shouldered, barrel-chested American general towered over him. Ice-cold gray eyes glared down above a bent, often-broken nose and below the close- cropped white bristles of a regulation military crew cut. The general’s face was the face of a man who’d soldiered in half a dozen of the world’s most godforsaken climates — sun-browned, leathery, square-jawed, and lean. It was the face of a man born to command.
Nervously, the lieutenant licked his lips. “I have my orders, sir. Radicals and communists are marching here from the Myongdong Cathedral. They have declared their intent to assault the Blue House and depose our president.”
“Hell,” said McLaren, “they always say that.”
“Sir, we cannot take such threats lightly. The disturbances have grown more violent each day, and this one has been most difficult to control. These criminals may think they can actually reach the palace. But they will not get through this line. It is all planned, sir. My men will fire a volley over their heads to force them back — if the tear gas doesn’t work.”
The lieutenant straightened up. “Those are my instructions, sir. And my men and I will carry them out. We cannot allow these terrorists to cause trouble this close to the Blue House — or this close to your embassy for that matter.
“In any event, General, this is an internal matter. And I am not under your command.” The Combat Police lieutenant seemed slightly more at ease now that he had remembered that. He saluted sharply and moved back to his men.
McLaren stared after him — working hard not to explode in rage. The trouble was, the little son of a bitch was right. As the overall commander of all the regular military forces in South Korea, McLaren could control the movements of more than six hundred thousand South Korean and American troops. But he didn’t have any authority over the country’s internal security and paramilitary units, and so he could not issue orders to this one half-assed Combat Police junior officer. There wasn’t any way around that — not in time for it to matter anyway.
His long, black staff car, paced by two sweating policemen, pulled up beside him, and Corporal Harmon stuck his head out the window. “Hey, General, sir. We’re out and ready to roll.”
McLaren climbed into the backseat and slammed the car door shut. “Did you get through to the Blue House, Doug?”
“They’ve canceled today’s meeting, sir. Something about this upcoming demonstration ‘requiring immediate attention.’ ” His aide laughed. “Whatever that means.”
McLaren jerked a thumb out the window as they passed through the rifle-armed Combat Police. “Well, I’ll tell you. It sure as hell doesn’t mean anything good. Let’s head up to the embassy to check in.”
They sat back in silence as the car moved toward the gates of the American embassy compound. But as the Marine sentries at the entrance came to attention, McLaren leaned forward again. “Hold it, Harmon. I’m getting out here.”
He turned to his aide. “Doug, you go on into the embassy and report in to HQ. Get a status report on the demonstration and try to find out if the CIA has any idea why the South Koreans are so goddamned spooked. Meantime, I’m going to go back and eyeball this one — I don’t like the feeling I’m getting about all of this.”
McLaren noticed his aide and driver exchanging rueful looks as he got out of the car. Well, let them. He knew they didn’t approve of his gallivanting off into a “situation,” but they’d also learned the hard way not to try to stop him. He just didn’t see the point in holing up with the ambassador while something explosive was happening just outside the embassy’s gates.
It really was none of his business. After all, student protests often seemed like a national sport in South Korea. The season ran from the time school opened in September until winter set in during November — and then it reopened in the spring until the summer monsoon closed it down in June. At times the protestors and the Combat Police — the ROK’s internal security force — acted as though they were simply carrying out some age-old ritual. But then somebody would get killed — hit in the head by a tear gas grenade, torched by a homemade, paint-spray flamethrower, or beaten to death in a wild street melee. When that happened, it wasn’t a game, and everybody damned well knew it.
Combat police did not carry rifles. Whoever gave that order was scared of something. He wanted to find out what, before the kimchee really hit the fan.
