Leader, Kim Jong-il, held the other key.
It was generally believed, however, that Vice-Marshal Kim and General Cho had full authority and standing orders to launch an attack, especially if South Korea struck first — President Kim would immediately authorize a counterstrike with special weapons without any hesitation or question. That meant that Kim and Cho had extraordinary powers that few men on earth commanded.
Lieutenant An quickly realized the purpose of the spilled supplies in the elevator. Because there was only one elevator to the command center, because it moved so slowly, and because it could only hold three or four persons at a time, it was constantly in use. No one could leave or enter now.
As An’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could make out more details of the command center. It resembled a theater, with a wooden stage, an “orchestra” section at which computer and communications technicians worked, and behind them seats for the defense ministers, senior commanders, and their aides in a semicircle. There were several conference rooms and cubicles behind the commanders’ stations, a circular access aisle, and then more support staff areas. Up onstage, old-fashioned greaseboards and mark-and-erase maps and flow charts, updated by communications technicians with tissue paper and grease pens, dwarfed a few electronic computer screens. It was all much smaller and much less sophisticated than An had anticipated. But security guards were everywhere. Vice-Marshal Kim and General Cho each appeared to have one armed aide with them at all times, and another armed bodyguard was roaming the aisle off to the side so he could observe the entire room.
“Take that box up to the plotter’s station, Lieutenant,” Major Hong said in a loud voice, “and if you make another clumsy mistake, I will do much more than embarrass you before your fellow officers. Now
Just as he reached the center, he heard Major Hong shout,
An stopped and turned to face Hong, somewhere in the back of the command center. Every face on the command center floor, from Vice-Marshal Kim to the lowliest clerk, was looking at him. “Major, I…”
Just then the world exploded in a blinding flash of white light and an ear-splitting
Lieutenant An awoke a long time later, sprawled in a chair on the stage. His poncho was still on, which he removed, and he still wore his MP5K on its shoulder harness sling. When he looked behind him, he noticed several officers and enlisted men, bound wrist and ankle with nylon handcuffs, their mouths wrapped in nylon too. A few were shouting muffled curses, but most were still. Major Hong handed An a canteen of water, which he poured over his face. The cool water felt wonderful — his face felt as if it had been badly sunburned.
“Welcome back to the land of the living, Lieutenant,” Hong said with a reassuring smile. “Are you all right?”
“I still can’t see very well,” An replied, “but I think I am unhurt.”
“I do believe you are the first one ever to have a two-kilo flash-bang charge detonate in his hands,” Hong said. His voice was louder than normal because he knew An’s ears would still be ringing from the blast. “Good to see it is not fatal — at least not when it’s pointed away from you.” He paused, then said, “Time had run out, young sir. Several status checks had been missed; reports were being radioed directly down to the command center instead of through my office. I had to act immediately — there was no time to tell you to don your protective gear.”
“I understand, sir,” An responded. He looked around him through blurry eyes. “Are the officers secure?”
“Secure or dead — it was their choice,” Hong said matter-of-factly. “I have taken twenty officers and forty- one enlisted men captive. Ten officers and ten enlisted men pledged their support to a united Republic of Korea. They sealed their promise by desecrating their flag before the vice-marshal and General Cho. They offered to man the consoles and communications systems and try as long as possible to maintain a normal communications pattern. I do not think it can be done for very long, but we will try.”
“Can you trust the men who pledged loyalty to your revolt?” An asked. “If they are on the communications panel, they can radio for help.”
“Lieutenant, all I have to rely on is trust and my own intuition,” Major Hong said. “I trust your government to support me and my men, before and after the revolt. Besides, there is very little anyone can do even if the whole world knows of what we have done. This facility is not impregnable, but it is self-sufficient and it can withstand a very large assault. And if they do destroy it, they destroy their own national military command center, which will paralyze their command, control, and communications systems.” He smiled a faint smile. “But if our brothers in the South fulfill their part of the bargain, it will not matter. The revolution we are praying for will still take place.”
Lieutenant An nodded. “I have been praying for unification all my life, sir,” he said. “I am proud to be standing with you here this day. What shall we do now?”
“We continue operations as long as we can and make it seem as normal as possible,” Hong replied. “When the fun starts, we shall do everything we can to delay, confuse, and disrupt the Communists’ response, and then we shall pray that our brothers to the south are successful. In less than six hours, we shall see what kind of world we have created together here today.”
What in blazes is going on!” thundered Colonel of Artillery Forces Cho Mun-san, commander of the Fourth Artillery Division at Sunan People’s Army Base. “You had better start talking
“Sir!” The duty officer, Captain of Artillery Kong Hwan-li, a former missile battery commander, stood at ramrod attention as the division commander entered the ready room. Kong was a young, dedicated Korean People’s Army officer, groomed to be a military officer since the age of twelve. He had been promoted to serve in headquarters after only six years in the field, first as a missile launch officer and then as assistant company commander. Now he was the night division headquarters senior duty officer, in charge of the entire artillery division at Sunan — three brigades of short-, medium-, and long-range surface-to-surface missile units, aimed at South Korea and the region just north of the Demilitarized Zone. It was a high honor for a young captain.
To Kong Hwan-li, this assignment and his previous assignment as a missile launch officer were the most important ones he could ever hope to have. With his skills and knowledge, he would be the first to strike against the capitalists to the south. It was a sacred honor and a sacred duty. The state was in a constant condition of alert and readiness, and the sooner war came, the better.
This situation was a perfect example. Either this was a joke, a no-notice exercise, or the beginning of the long-awaited war with the capitalists. To Kong, it didn’t matter — his duty was clear no matter what was going on. It was he who had had to make the decision to wake up the division commander, and now he had to have all the answers. “Sir, I must report a serious error in our routine communications checks with headquarters,” Kong said.
“Spit it out, Captain.”
He produced the duty officer’s logbook, which contained a page detailing the communications procedures that must be performed every hour. “I sent a routine hourly continuity check message to the Command and Coordination Facility. My last message was properly acknowledged by the computer, except that the authentication was made using last hour’s code. I know the assistant controller at the CCF, so I… “He swallowed nervously, then went on: “Sir, I took it upon myself to phone him to reprimand him for using the old code.”
“That is what you got me out of bed for, Captain?”
“No, sir,” Kong hurried on. “I was unable to reach the CCF by phone. I sent a communications check
