control and patience, “that a target list changes radically from day to day. The shelf life of intelligence is pretty short, often measured in hours rather than days. If I start assigning flights to specific targets now, people start planning around those. Then, when we have to make changes, they’re caught short. That’s why I leave a lot of the details TBA so people will continue to think outside the box.”
“But we know where their bases and major facilities are. So what if you have to fine-tune a few details?”
“The devil is in the details,” Coyote answered, aware that his voice was getting sharper. “It’s a specific Silkworm site that will kill you, not the general knowledge that there’s a missile somewhere within a five-mile area. Unless,” he said, trying unsuccessfully to control his temper, “you really want to send a Tomcat driver out with orders just to find something that looks dangerous and kill it?”
“I put a lot of faith in the guy in the cockpit.”
“Like I don’t? Listen, buddy, I’ve been there, been back, and got the Air Medal. And I’m telling you, this has nothing to do with dissing the judgment of an individual pilot. It has to do with how old your intelligence is, how good it is, and what the hell is going on in the rest of the world. Not whether your flight schedule has all the blanks filled in days or weeks before the actual event.”
“Flight schedules can change.”
“They can. But they don’t. You put the details in, it’s like setting it in stone. People figure you know what you’re doing and they start their planning based on your flight schedule. Tankers, the logistics and weapons people, even national authority.”
“Yes, master. Grasshopper understand.”
“Knock it off.”
“You going to make me?”
“What if I don’t?”
Coyote smiled. It was not a pretty sight. “Hasn’t it occurred to you,” he said, his voice soft and level, “that I’m a year senior to you? When it comes down to coordinating our operations, who do think it’s going to be in overall command? You? Nope. So, Admiral — yes, I am going to make you knock it off. I will expect your proposed flight plan on my desk tomorrow morning, submitted for
Had the admiral on board
For perhaps the fourth time in the last hour, he read the latest intelligence summary. According to what the spooks termed “sources of questionable reliability,” North Korean troops were poised to move south. Already, the source claimed, cadres of guerrilla fighters had been filtering into areas along the Demilitarized Zone. The bulk of the troops, never more than a day or so’s travel from the DMZ, were in a heightened state of readiness and could be deployed at any time.
Or maybe not. The problem lay in the fact that there was no supporting source of information. The satellite spooks had not yet turned up any evidence of increased troop movements, nor had any of the international news agencies that followed the area. The only one crying wolf was one lone intelligence source on the ground, a foreign national at that.
It didn’t make a whole lot of difference, though, did it? What would you do differently if you were certain that trouble was starting in Korea?
And that, he concluded, was the real issue — priority. Most of America’s focus was centered on its problems at home and in the Middle East. Let gasoline prices go up two cents at the pump and everybody would be howling about Middle East stability. Problems with Korea were low on the national priority list.
China had far more power to affect the world than the Middle East even dreamed about, and her first forays into the international arena had taken place here, in Korea, where China knew the ground, the terrain, and the people. Some people remembered that, most notably the veterans of the Korean War, but they were aging and dying off and their voices seldom were heard.
He picked up his desk phone and dialed the chief of staff. “Round up the intelligence officer, will you? And Strike. I think we need to take a serious look at this latest intel.”
This time, he was going with his gut. And his gut was screaming that he’d better be ready.
Chan Su Lee would have taken some comfort from it if he’d known of Coyote’s worries, and there were few comforts to be found in North Korea for the senior officer from the People’s Republic of China. Never in all his military career, not even under the worst field conditions, had being in North Korea seemed such a hardship. The most miserable part of this tour of duty was the smell. The stench of rotting fish and kimchi assailed Chan the moment he woke up. It clung to his clothes and his hair, permeating everything he owned, promising to follow him home to China. Everything he owned and had brought to North Korea would have to be burned downwind from any of his family or friends.
Even after two months in North Korea, the Chinese had not yet fully acclimated. Every day, some misunderstanding or problem arose from the differences in their cultures. In particular, he found the Koreans far too prickly about their national pride and prestige. It struck him as ludicrous that such an insignificant peninsula could matter at all to the rest of the world. The area known as Korea was part of the greater Chinese Empire, and everyone know it. If the rest of the world would stop interfering in what was purely a territorial matter, the matter would resolve itself simply and quietly.
Chan rolled out of his bed. His feet hit the old wooden floor last polished perhaps ten years ago. The deprivations in the North were felt at all levels of the society, and senior visiting dignitaries, even military ones, were not exempt. At home, his accommodations would have been more in keeping with his status. Here, however, he had to cope with damp and cold quarters. No matter that this was the best available. That did not prevent them from being truly miserable accommodations.
His aides and personal servants were already hard at work, organizing the rest of his day. There were a number of political and social obligations, but in truth, nothing much mattered after his morning conference. Oh, yes, there were alliances to be made, and other work to be done. But the man he was meeting this morning was really the only one he needed to talk to.
An hour later, there was a soft tap on his door, which was answered by his aide. He heard a few murmured words, and then his aide was at his office door, announcing the visitor. Chan stood as the man entered the room.
“Thank you for coming this morning,” Chan said politely. “You are well?”
“I am well.” The North Korean officer studied him, his entire body giving the impression of a coiled spring. There was an energy about him that Chan found deeply disturbing, something that went beyond the normal coarse spirit one would expect after years of combat. No, there was something deeply wrong about this man, the commander of the southern forces. A dark, brutal streak of wrongness, something that made him glory in and take personal pleasure in the pain he caused his enemies. It went beyond simple pride in his unit and in his performance, beyond that of the warriors. It was darkness.
