Red Phoenix

CHAPTER 7 Reports

Cigarette smoke fogged the small, wood-paneled conference room, and Blake Fowler, his eyes watering, wondered why so many people in the intelligence community still smoked. Was it nerves or just the desire to look tough?

He could barely make out the wall clock through the haze. It was just after five in the evening. Outside the Old Executive Office Building’s Victorian walls and gables, Washington’s streets were filling up as tens of thousands of career government workers headed home — fighting their way through traffic that seemed to get worse with every passing day. Fowler laughed inwardly. At least this job kept him from sitting behind the wheel of an immobile car.

He looked around the crowded conference table. Almost everyone in the Korean Interagency Working Group had arrived. First, Mike Dolan from the CIA, a middling-tall, pug-nosed Boston Irishman with hair as black as night and an infectious devil-may-care grin. Fowler had always thought Dolan looked more like a middleweight boxer than a spy, and he had the feeling that was how the CIA agent wanted it. In contrast, plump, smooth-featured, pipe-smoking Alan Voorhees looked exactly like what he was, an academic turned Department of Commerce bureaucrat — complete with stylish Adam Smith tie and expensive leather briefcase.

Voorhees was deep in conversation with a tall, ramrod-straight black man who would never be mistaken for a mere bureaucrat. Even in a pin-striped, double-breasted suit, Brigadier General Dennis Scott looked as though he belonged in uniform. Fowler knew the Defense Intelligence Agency representative was nearing fifty, but only the gray speckled through his hair provided the slightest clue to his age. Scott still left younger opponents gasping for air on the squash courts near his Falls Church home.

Waspish little Carleton Pickering of the National Security Agency was barely visible beyond the general. Pickering’s keen eyes, thick, bushy eyebrows, and fussy, precise voice had been a Washington intelligence community fixture for years. The tiny, fox-faced analyst had an uncanny ability to turn the tiniest fragments of raw intelligence into a polished and plausible picture of enemy intentions, activities, and capabilities.

The door suddenly slammed shut behind the Pentagon’s representative, a bluff, hearty Navy captain named Ted Carlson. He swaggered to the corner coat rack, shrugged off his damp overcoat, and then whipped off his plastic-covered uniform cap. Water droplets cascaded from the cap onto the carpet. Carlson grinned at his startled colleagues and took an empty chair near Fowler.

One man wasn’t there. Tolliver, the prep school kid from the State Department, was late again — as usual. Fowler had called State to find out where he was, only to be told by Tolliver’s secretary that he was in another meeting and that she wasn’t sure when, or even if, he could get there. Well, Tolliver could play catch-up on his own time.

Fowler rapped gently on the table, breaking through a hum of quiet shoptalk. “We’ve got a fair amount of material to cover this evening, gentlemen. So let’s get the show on the road. I, for one, would like to get home before midnight.”

General Scott smiled. “Not going to wait for our little friend from Foggy Bottom?” He didn’t seem too upset by the prospect.

Pickering leaned forward, a slight smile on his narrow face. “I don’t think Tolliver is likely to get here anytime soon. I hear the Secretary’s given him a new job — he’s working on the American desk these days.”

Fowler and the others chuckled softly. It was an old joke but just true enough to stay funny. State Department “desks” were charged with keeping track of the issues and interests of particular countries. And the other agencies and departments with foreign policy responsibilities often wished that State had a similar organization to protect American interests — interests they sometimes felt were overlooked by the striped-pants diplomats in Foggy Bottom.

As the laughter died down, Fowler looked over at the CIA’s representative on the Working Group. “Mike, why don’t you kick things off tonight.” When they’d first assembled the group, he’d asked Dolan to keep them up to speed on current events behind the scenes in Seoul. It had been a natural assignment. All the men sitting around the table had some measure of expertise in Asian political and military affairs, but the CIA had the best collection of sources in the region.

Dolan stubbed his cigarette out in an ashtray. “Yeah, okay.” He pushed the ashtray away. “I got a telex from our people just before I came here tonight.”

“Things are still fairly quiet in the streets. But that won’t last long. NSP says the students are planning more demonstrations. And our people over there confirm that. The government’s tried making police sweeps of Seoul National University, but the leaders they need to grab have all gone underground.” Dolan handed the multipage telex he’d summarized over to Fowler.

“What about the official report they promised on the massacre?” Voorhees looked as though he really believed it might solve their Korean problem.

Dolan snorted. “Our sources say it’s going to be released tomorrow. But it sure as hell isn’t going to improve the situation.”

He waved a hand toward Fowler. “You called that one right, Blake. It looks like they’re going to try to blame some lowly police officer for the order to fire. And he very conveniently got himself killed in the riot.”

Grim laughter from the other members of the Working Group interrupted him.

“And just in case no one buys that, they’re going to announce the simultaneous resignation of the Home Affairs minister. Apparently, he’s been chosen to play the part of the sacrificial lamb.”

General Scott cleared his throat. “Goddamnit, that’s not going to settle anything. I’ve met the man’s deputy and he’s even more of a hard case than his boss. The bastard’s probably the one who really gave the police orders to meet that demonstration with force.”

Dolan nodded. “You’ve got it right, Denny. What’s more, the students and opposition leaders know that as well as we do — probably better. The trouble is, nothing short of a complete government surrender will satisfy them now. And the government isn’t going to hang out the white flags anytime soon.”

Fowler and the others around the table knew what that meant. More demonstrations, more riots, and probably, more blood in South Korea’s streets.

Fowler sighed. “Okay, all of that makes our analysis of the Barnes bill even more important. Legislative Affairs still says the bill won’t make it to the floor, but it’s already getting more press attention than they’d predicted.”

He looked down at his notes. “Plus, I just got word this afternoon that the House Foreign Affairs Committee is planning to mark it up tomorrow morning.”

The others sat up a little more sharply. A bill markup was the action stage for a congressional committee. Hearings weren’t really important — markups were where the real work got done.

“Jesus, they’re moving pretty damned fast, aren’t they?” Captain Carlson sounded worried.

“C’mon, Ted. You know what the Foreign Affairs Committee’s like. If those guys bent any more to the left, they’d fall right over on their asses.”

Scott’s contemptuous assessment won agreeing murmurs from around the table.

The general continued, “And everybody knows that Barnes and that son-of-a-bitch Dugan are like that.” He held up two crossed fingers to represent the Trade subcommittee chairman and the chairman of the Foreign Affairs Committee.

Fowler and the others nodded. Barnes and Dugan were both from the same wing of their political party, and they’d been allies for years. They could be expected to trade favors. And the same could be expected from their counterparts in the Senate. Fortunately, though, the bill still had to run the gauntlet of the Armed Services committees on both sides of the Hill — and those committees, though less conservative than in past years, still leaned more to the right than the left.

Which was nice to know, but it didn’t move them any closer to putting out a single, consistent administration policy paper on the legislation.

Fowler tapped his typed agenda. “Okay, next item. The trade sanctions provisions our friend Mr. Barnes has in his bill. We’ve already agreed on language spelling out just what they would do to importers and exporters in this country. The key question is, will the sanctions work?” He glanced around the table.

Voorhees took the pipe out of his mouth. “You mean, will they force the South Korean government to reform?” The Commerce Department representative sat back further in his chair. “No. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I just don’t see it. The Koreans are too proud. Giving in to Barnes would seem as bad to them as surrendering in a war.”

Dolan backed him up — something that was probably a first. “Hell, the South Koreans are even more stubborn than the fucking South Africans. They aren’t going to do diddly damned all just because the U.S. Congress threatens them.”

Fowler stared down at his notes as the discussion rose and fell around him. Everything he’d seen during his year of postgraduate work in Seoul and everything the other Working Group members said tended to confirm Dolan’s offhanded assessment. And that raised an ugly scenario. If the Barnes bill somehow made it through the congressional gauntlet, the South Koreans wouldn’t meekly buckle under before its threatened sanctions went into place. They’d try to tough it out — at a potentially catastrophic cost to their own economy.

Over the last several years the South Koreans had run up a forty-plus billion dollar foreign debt to modernize their country. They’d produced an economic miracle with the money — building superhighways, ultramodern factories, universities, all the infrastructure of a powerful industrial state. But it was an economic miracle that rested on a single, somewhat shaky base: exports. Back in 1984 fully a third of South Korea’s gross national product had come from its sales overseas. To pay its foreign debts, South Korea had to run large trade surpluses with the rest of the world in each and every year.

If the Barnes trade sanctions went into effect, South Korea would lose most, if not all, of its single largest market almost overnight. And Fowler knew that the Europeans and Japanese would probably be close behind the United States in imposing protectionist tariffs on Korean products. They faced the same kinds of domestic political pressure groups as the U.S. Congress, and they’d already shown an even greater willingness to surrender to them.

And unlike South Africa, Iran, or Libya, where trade sanctions had failed miserably, South Korea didn’t produce any irreplaceable products. Its companies had prospered by being able to manufacture cars, computers, and ships more cheaply than their competitors. But nobody’s economy would collapse without access to Samsung TVs or Hyundai cars.

Fowler frowned. The economic risks for South Korea were clear. What would happen to a country whose whole economy rested on exports if the rest of the world suddenly turned off the cash flow? Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be anything good.

He flipped to the next page of his notes, taking a discreet look at his watch while he did it. These meetings went pretty smoothly without having to listen to interminable speeches from the State Department’s Tolliver. Maybe he could have Katie “forget” to notify Tolliver about the next session. It was a tempting thought and he knew he’d have to work hard to resist it.

He studied the other men around the table. “We’ve all seen Ted’s paper analyzing the provisions in the Barnes bill that would force us to withdraw American troops from South Korea. He argues that the timetables for withdrawal would be difficult, if not impossible, to meet. Anyone have any questions or comments?”

The others shook their heads, but Carlson wanted to supplement his earlier written report. “Don’t forget that it’d be godawful expensive, too. You’re talking about shipping three squadrons of fighters, six artillery battalions, SAM batteries, helicopters, and a whole damned infantry division all the way across the Pacific.”

Scott whistled. “Son of a bitch. That’d tie up a pretty big percentage of our strategic sea- and airlift assets.”

Carlson nodded. “I’ve got my staff running studies now. We should have some hard numbers in a couple of days or so.”

Fowler scribbled a reminder to himself to follow up on that. “Okay. So we’d have trouble implementing the withdrawal provisions on time and they’d cost an arm and a leg. Plus, providing the ships and planes to move our troops would eat into our ability to respond quickly to crises in other parts of the world.”

He looked up. “Is that a fair summary?”

Mike Dolan answered for everyone. “Heap big white man from NSC speakum truth.” The others around the conference table laughed.

Fowler grinned. Trust Dolan to keep him from getting too comfortable in the chairman’s chair. He put his pen down. “That’s settled then. But do my Indian brothers have anything to say about the military effects of pulling the Great White Father’s soldiers out of Korea?”

That sobered them up.

General Scott spoke up first. “It’d be a damned big mistake — no ifs, ands, or buts about it.”

“I don’t see it, Denny.” Voorhees shook his head. “We’ve got, what, maybe forty thousand men over there. Okay, that sounds like a lot. But the South Koreans have more than six hundred thousand troops. They don’t need us to keep the peace anymore.”

“Bullshit.” Scott obviously didn’t believe in mincing his words. “Sure the South Korean military is tough. Hell, they’re very tough. But those bastards on the other side of the DMZ are just as tough and they stay put for one damned good reason.” Scott held up a single finger. “Because the last time they tried invading, we kicked their butts all the way back across the thirty-eighth parallel.”

Blake agreed with the general, but knew that he’d skipped over a few things — like the fact that it had taken three years of hard fighting and more than fifty thousand American dead to win the uneasy truce along the Korean Demilitarized Zone. Voorhees looked unconvinced.

Dolan broke in. “Look, Alan, the trouble is that the military threat South Korea faces has been growing dramatically over the last few years. There’s a lot going on up there in Pyongyang that we need to be worried about.”

“Like what? And don’t give me some kind of ‘need to know’ runaround. I’ve got Code Word clearance just like the rest of you.”

Dolan eyed Voorhees calmly. “Okay. Like the fact that the Soviets have been supplying the North Koreans with first-line combat aircraft. Like the fact that Kim Il-Sung and his boys are getting advanced tanks, artillery, and surface-to-surface rockets for the first time ever. Like the fact that North Korea’s resident chief lunatic Kim has given the Soviets overflight rights and access to his naval bases — something that he’s refused to do for more than thirty years.”

“Oh, come on, guys.” Voorhees laughed, a bit nervously. “You can’t tell me you’re going to try feeding everyone the old ‘the Russians are coming, the Russians are coming’ bullshit. No one’s going to buy it. What kind of confirmation do you have? I mean, couldn’t this stuff just be rumors spread around by the NSP to keep us backing the South Korean government?”

Fowler decided it was time to intervene. “Some of it may be. But not all of it. Our satellites have caught glimpses of new equipment being fed into the North, and we’ve spotted increasing numbers of Soviet warships and planes in and around North Korea.”

He paused for a moment. “So we know for sure that North Korea’s engaged in a sizable military buildup. What we can’t get is solid data on what they plan to do with all that hardware. And in a way, that makes the situation we face worse. We can estimate the North’s capabilities but we can’t guess their intentions. That means we’ve got to plan for the worst case.”

He looked over at Dolan. “Your people haven’t been able to get anyone inside North Korea, have they?”

Dolan shook his head. “No. We don’t have a single agent on the ground up there. The damned place is too regimented, too paranoid to infiltrate. We’ve worked with the NSP for decades to try to plant somebody. It never works. They go in … and they don’t ever, ever come out.”

Scott agreed. “Yeah. The only human intel we can get from inside Pyongyang comes from some of the Japanese companies that do business there. And we can’t confirm much of that.”

Time to bring it home. Fowler looked straight into Voorhees’s eyes. “So what we’ve got, Alan, is a country that’s already militarized beyond all reason. A country that’s certainly acquiring even more weaponry. And a country that has a forty-year-old track record of aggression, assassination, and terrorism. Just how do you suggest we should interpret those facts?”

Fowler studied Voorhees’s face carefully. He looked less sure of himself than he’d been before. Good. They had to convince him that there could be an increased military threat if the Barnes troop withdrawal provisions went into effect. If they didn’t, Voorhees might talk his boss, the Secretary of Commerce, into disapproving the Working Group’s report. That wouldn’t please George Putnam one little bit. More importantly, it would set the stage for still another disjointed administration response to half-baked congressional legislation.

Fowler caught Dolan’s eye. “Maybe you could let Alan take a look at your latest assessment of North Korea’s military capabilities.”

Dolan nodded back slowly, a barely perceptible smile on his face. “Sure thing.” He turned to Voorhees. “I’d be happy to messenger over the file anytime you want to see it.”

Voorhees looked around the table. He obviously knew he was outnumbered, and Fowler had offered him a face-saving way out. He nodded. “Okay. I’ll take a look at it. If what you say about the Soviets’ boosting North Korea’s military capabilities is true …” Voorhees paused. “Well, I’d have to say that would show that an American troop withdrawal could cause some problems.”

Fowler fought hard not to smile. They had him. Voorhees might not be completely convinced, but he wasn’t going to oppose the group’s analysis.

He glanced down at his watch again. God, it was getting late. It was time to declare victory and get back to his word processor.

He shuffled his notes back into order. “Does anyone have anything else they want to go over for now?” There was silence from around the table.

“Right. Okay, I’ll finish putting together a draft position paper on the bill. I should have something to send around for comment by tomorrow night.”

Carlson spoke for the others. “When do you need it back?” He looked unhappy. He was probably worried about missing the next Redskins game. Fowler knew he had season tickets.

“Frankly, as soon as possible. Sorry, Ted, but Putnam’s really breathing down my neck on this one. And with the bill going into markup, he might not be so far off base. Maybe you can take it to the game with you.” Carlson laughed.

Fowler stuffed his papers back into his briefcase. “Seriously, I’ve got a feeling the clock’s running on this one, guys. And we’d better get our playbook written and approved before we get stepped on by Congress.”

The other members of the Working Group nodded, gathered up their own notes, and filed out of the room. Fowler headed back to his office.

The meeting had gone pretty well. Unless he’d completely misread the signals, the others agreed that the Barnes bill should be vigorously opposed. There’d be the usual back-and-forth tussle over the exact wording, but in the end he should be able to get them to approve a clear, concise paper recommending that course to the President.

Fowler knew that might prove vital. From what he could gather from the nightly news and in shoptalk around the office, the Barnes Korean sanctions bill was gathering support left and right — though mostly from the left. Unions, church and human rights groups, so-called public interest organizations, and activists of every stripe were out beating the drums, sending in postcards, and holding press conferences. One of the farmers’ groups had even come out in support of the Barnes bill. They’d been pissed off by South Korea’s refusal to open its markets to American agricultural products. It was beginning to look as if it were open season on South Korea.

It also looked as if he and his trusty computer were among the few standing in the steamroller’s path. He stopped in the hallway, stifled a yawn, and laughed to himself. Talk about delusions of grandeur. He must be catching the “Washington disease” — the curious belief that everything everywhere depended on one’s own actions.

He’d have thought he was immune to it, but perhaps it stole quietly into the brain — drawn in from the long, echoing marble corridors, from the flags, the statues of great men long dead, and from the tingling, ever present sensation of power that you felt from the very first moment you wore a security badge.

He walked on, idly fingering the badge hanging from a chain around his neck. It didn’t matter. He had a policy paper to write, regardless of whether the importance he attached to it was real or imagined.

Fowler didn’t get home until well past midnight.

He came in the door as quietly as he could. The town house they rented in suburban northern Virginia seemed well enough built, but it was small and sounds carried far at night.

He left the hall light off and felt his way along past his daughter’s bedroom. He stopped for a moment at her door, listening for a change in her breathing. Part of him almost hoped she’d wake up. Kary was five, growing up fast, and he’d scarcely seen her for the past several months. But he kept moving. She was in school now. She needed all the sleep she could get.

Mandy had left the window blinds in the master bedroom open — letting in a soft white glow from the moon that gave him just enough light to avoid stumbling into the furniture. He undressed hurriedly, draping his suit pants, shirt, and tie over a chair. Fowler shivered. The August heat wave had finally broken only a couple of weeks ago, but the nights were already turning colder.

He laid his glasses, watch, and security badge on the nightstand by the bed and slid under the covers. A warm hand came up to gently stroke his face. He opened his eyes to see his wife propped up on one elbow. She smiled and bent down over him. “Hi, there. Glad you’re home.”

God, she was beautiful. The moonlight gleamed in his wife’s corn-silk-fine, blond hair and illuminated her pert, freckled nose, delicate, oval face, and baby-blue eyes. His heart turned over with a thump, and he felt a sense of childlike wonder that it still did that whenever he saw her. Even after seven years of marriage.

He and Mandy had met as graduate students on a summer studies tour of Japan, and he’d fallen head over heels in love with her in hours — bowled over by the combination of beauty, intelligence, and a husky, Southern voice. He still didn’t know exactly what she’d seen in him.

He just thanked God he hadn’t completely lost whatever it was, despite the constant strain imposed by the hundred-hour workweeks his job often demanded. And it wasn’t just a strain on him, he thought guiltily. He never seemed to be around when Kary was sick or Mandy needed his help. They’d exchanged some cold words over times like that. But so far they’d both been able to find their way back into love out of the cold. So far. Still, there were a lot of days when he regretted the pride and ambition that had made him forsake a quiet, university teaching career for the “glamor” of an NSC staff post.

Fowler reached both arms around her, holding her close, marveling at her warmth. “Sorry I’m so late.” He kissed her neck. “I should have called.”

She sighed, wriggling closer still so that she lay pressed against him. “It would have been nice. But after I saw the news reports, I knew you’d be late.” She laughed quietly. “Don’t worry, Dr. Fowler, I didn’t file a missing person’s report.”

He tensed. He hadn’t even turned on the office television that evening. “What happened? Was it something about Korea?”

He could almost feel Mandy’s surprise. “I thought you knew. They had another riot somewhere over there with more shooting. Someplace called Kwangju, I think. It was on the eleven-o’clock news.”

Damn. Goddamnit. The South Koreans were their own worst enemies.

He reached over for his glasses and badge as the phone started to ring.

Jack McLaren sipped his tea appreciatively and set his cup down. He met the eyes of the four-star general sitting across from him. “Aju masisumnida. It’s very delicious.”

General Park, Chairman of the South Korean Joint Chiefs of Staff, smiled politely. “Your Korean is improving greatly, General McLaren. Someday I am sure I will mistake you for one of my countrymen.” Park was a small, dapper man. The uniform fitted his wiry frame precisely. He was obviously in excellent condition.

“Thank you. But you’re already much more fluent in my language than I will ever be in yours.”

General Park bowed slightly to acknowledge the compliment. “Would you care for some more of this tea? Or perhaps there is something else I can offer you that would be more to your taste?”

Yeah, McLaren thought, how about putting an end to all this pussyfooting around and getting down to business. He controlled the urge to let his impatience show plainly. In Rome, you spoke Italian. In Bonn, you drank beer. And in Seoul, you suffered through half an hour of meaningless pleasantries before it was considered polite to talk seriously.

He had to admit, though, that he’d seen meetings in Washington that might have gone more smoothly had those involved spent a little time getting to know each other better.

But he already knew General Park all too well. Park’s combat record as a battalion commander during the Vietnam War had been very good. He’d been deeply involved in politics since then, though, and it showed.

McLaren understood the disdain military men like General Park felt for the fractious politicians and the unending political disputes South Korea seemed to breed, but he didn’t see how they thought they could do much better. Hell, you couldn’t run a growing, prosperous country along strict military lines forever, and if you developed the kinds of political skills needed to run a democracy, you wound up just being another politician like all the rest. And Park was almost all politician these days.

McLaren drained his teacup and shook his head as Park’s aide leaned forward to pour more tea. The Korean general delicately set his own cup back on the tray and motioned his aide out of the room.

Park sat back in his chair. “There, my friend, we are alone now.” He smiled. “So we are free to discuss things … candidly, as you Americans would say.”

McLaren nodded. “Good. First things first. I’d like to commend your troops for the way they handled that NK commando raid near Ulchin this morning. That was damned fine work.”

A group of North Korean commandos had been landed by submarine, with a mission somewhere inland. While not routine, the North launched such a raid approximately once a month. Their usual missions included sabotage and assassination. Whatever mayhem had been planned this time, the heavy defenses that ringed the coast had stopped it cold, right on the beach.

“They were simply doing their duty. But of course I shall be happy to pass your commendation on to their division commander. He will be delighted, I am sure, to receive praise from the commander of all our Combined Forces.”

McLaren heard the carefully controlled bitterness in Park’s voice but let it pass. He’d known this was a difficult command situation before he’d accepted the assignment to head allied forces in South Korea. The South Koreans, understandably, were increasingly unhappy with a chain of command that put an American general with forty thousand troops in charge of the entire six-hundred-thousand-man South Korean military.

He looked straight into Park’s eyes before continuing. “But I can’t go along with this last request of yours. There simply are no valid military reasons to pull the 3rd Infantry Division back from the DMZ to the interior.”

Park’s face was impassive. “I must protest your hasty decision. Surely your staff has shown you the figures on the recent upsurge of attempted communist landings.”

“Yes, my South Korean staff officers have shown me their studies. But I also know that the forces already in place along the coast haven’t had much trouble coping with these latest landings. They don’t need reinforcements.”

McLaren leaned forward. “Look, General. I’m well aware that you want those men posted back in the cities to help you control these student demonstrations. And I’m sure you’re equally well aware that my country simply can’t countenance the use of regular military forces to put down civil unrest.”

“General McLaren.” Park’s anger was starting to show. “These riots are being sparked by terrorist agitators. My government is not facing simple crowds of unruly students. These radicals are being led by a hard-core communist cadre.”

“Bullshit.” Damn. McLaren was glad there were no State Department flunkies around to hear his undiplomatic language. But that was what they got for sending a combat soldier on a diplomatic fishing expedition. “Cut the crap, General. I don’t doubt for a minute that the bastards up in Pyongyang are salivating over all the trouble down here. But don’t try to feed me that stuff about these students being controlled by the commies. It ain’t going to wash — here or in Washington.”

Surprisingly, General Park smiled. “Very well. If you can speak so bluntly, then so can I. But I shall deny ever having said this, you understand?”

McLaren nodded. Well, well, so Park hadn’t really expected him to buy the communist agitator line. Interesting.

“The truth is that my government must restore order in our cities … and we must do so quickly.” Park lowered his voice. “As you know, we have a … how do you say it? A tradition of military intervention to bring order out of chaos.”

McLaren nodded again. South Korea’s military had jumped into the political fray in 1961 and 1979. “Go on.”

“There are officers, junior-grade officers to be sure, but officers nonetheless, who are becoming unhappy with the way the government is handling this latest crisis. They believe we have been indecisive, even weak, in responding to these student provocations.”

“So. Have your Defense Security Command deal with these officers. Hell, that’s what you’ve got it for, isn’t it?” McLaren couldn’t see the problem. The Defense Security Command was a vast, shadowy organization maintained solely to protect the South Korean government from coup attempts by its own military. Security agents were attached to every significant armed forces command, with instructions to keep a close eye on all goings on. And all South Korean officers were subject to rapid and unexplained transfers whenever it seemed that they might be becoming too popular with their troops. It was a system that reduced military effectiveness, but it did provide the government with a powerful check on any overly ambitious officers.

But Park shook his head. “The grumbling is too widespread. If we took hasty action against just a few of these men, the others might be driven into an unfortunate decision.”

Uh huh, McLaren thought, an “unfortunate decision” that would end the careers of a certain number of government officials — like General Park, for example.

Park looked closely at him. “So you see, General McLaren, it is essential that we bring this rioting to an end. The Combat Police are having trouble doing that. You must allow us to use our soldiers to restore order. It is necessary.”

Cute. Very cute. McLaren knew full well that the government, if it simply wanted soldiers for riot duty, could use its “black beret” Special Forces troops — men who weren’t under the Combined Forces Command. But using regular units, units nominally under his orders, would send a signal throughout Korea and around the world that the United States gave its full backing to whatever measures the South Korean government used to quell student dissent. Well, he wasn’t going to play that game.

“No dice, General. If your government wants to end these demonstrations, I suggest you rely on the police to do it. And if I were you, I’d tread more carefully in the way you go about it. If you’ve been following events back in the States at all, you know the Congress is giving the administration hell right now about our involvement over here.”

Park sat rigid in his chair for a moment. Then he stood abruptly. McLaren followed suit. “Then, General McLaren, I believe we have nothing further to discuss today. I shall inform my colleagues of your decision.”

McLaren picked up his uniform cap and briefcase. “Okay, you do that.”

“They will not be pleased. Perhaps our President will want to discuss the matter with your President.”

So they were going to try going over his head on this one? That wasn’t much of a surprise. But McLaren doubted they’d get any further with Washington than they had with him. “Fine. I’m sure they’ll find a great deal to discuss. In the meantime, your colleagues don’t have to be happy with my decision. They just have to live with it.”

He returned Park’s salute and headed out to his staff car. He had an inspection to conduct. And with the mood he was in, he sure as hell hoped the commander of the 4th Battalion, 7th Cavalry had everything ready.