Red Phoenix

CHAPTER 9 The Dead Zone

Captain Matuchek was obviously not in a good mood.

“Goddamnit, Little. Next time I ask you a question during a map exercise I don’t want a friggin’ military history lecture.”

Kevin nodded. And winced. Oh, Jesus, did his head hurt.

Matuchek carried on. “I wanted to know where you would have placed your machine gun teams to support an assault up Hill five seventy-two. I don’t give a flying frazzoo about limey Lord Wellington and his patented, Waterloo-style, rear-slope defense. Do you read me, mister?”

Kevin nodded again, cautiously, half-afraid that the top half of his brain would fall right out on his company commander’s desk. “Yes, sir. Loud and clear, sir.”

“Okay, consider yourself chewed out. I’ll take your word that it won’t happen again.” Matuchek rolled his chair back a few inches and opened a desk drawer. He pulled out a file folder and slid it across to Kevin. “Anyway, you won’t be participating in the next exercise. You and your platoon are rotating to Malibu West for a week, starting at oh four hundred hours tomorrow.”

Kevin picked up the folder. Malibu? What the hell?

Matuchek chuckled. “Don’t look so happy, Lieutenant. You aren’t going to see any bikini-clad surfer chicks up at Malibu West. That’s the name we use for Hill six forty.” He grinned a little wider. “You’ll be in scenic bunker accommodations along the DMZ, just a couple of klicks north of the lovely little village of Korangp’o.”

“Just us, sir? I mean, what about the rest of the company?” Kevin tried hard to keep his head perfectly still as he talked.

“Oh, we’ll be right behind you. In position along the MLR, the Main Line of Resistance. You’re pulling outpost duty, Lieutenant. You know, first to fight and first to fall.” Matuchek laced the fingers of his hands together on top of his desk and looked slightly smug. “I’ll expect to see your platoon on trucks heading out the camp gate at oh two hundred tomorrow. Sergeant Pierce will know what kind of equipment and supplies to take.”

At 0200? Two o’clock in the morning? Wonderful. A night road march and his first one at that. But two weeks with the 2nd Infantry Division had taught Kevin not to complain — at least not out loud. Matuchek was a good company commander, but he had a hair-trigger temper and it seemed that right now was not a good time to reveal any more gaps in his knowledge or experience.

Kevin hadn’t been able to get the hang of handling the captain yet. Everything that he did seemed to set Matuchek off. The man definitely wasn’t the nurturing type. One of the other platoon leaders had told him not to worry too much about it. There was a rumor going around that the captain and his wife back in the States were having “marital difficulties” and that was the real source of Matuchek’s discontent.

It was easy enough to believe that the rumor was the straight scoop. Korea was classed as a hardship post — no wives or families allowed. And any two people could grow far apart over twelve months. But understanding the reason for it didn’t make Kevin’s position as the focal point for Matuchek’s temper any easier.

“Okay, Little. That’s all for now. Study that folder. You’ll find a platoon deployment drawn up by the officer you replaced. Don’t bother to change it. He knew what he was doing. Dismissed.” Matuchek jerked a thumb toward his office door.

Kevin took the hint and left in search of his platoon sergeant.

Walking across the compound to find Sergeant Pierce was a chore. The ground wouldn’t stay still, it just kept rolling up and down, and the bright morning sun sent his shadow lurching ahead of him.

He frowned at no one in particular. Somehow he was going to have to find a way to get off Matuchek’s shit list. The trouble was he wasn’t quite sure just how to go about doing that.

Take the map exercise the grouchy bastard was pissed off about for example. Kevin and the other A Company platoon leaders had been simulating an attack to recapture an American defensive position along the DMZ during a hypothetical war. Moving little cardboard counters back and forth on a map to show deployments and assault formations. Kevin had been demonstrating how he would position his platoon’s infantry squads and weapons teams to support the attack when Matuchek had suddenly blown up and ripped him up one side and down the other. All because he’d made an offhand comment about how machine gun support wasn’t going to do much good because most of the “Aggressor” defense force would logically be dug in behind the hill — protected from direct line-of-sight support fire. It had made sense then. And it made sense now. But maybe he shouldn’t have tried to show off by pointing out that deploying on a reverse slope was a tactic going all the way back to Wellington’s beating the French at Waterloo. It had seemed like the right thing to say at the time.

Kevin shook his head slowly and then wished he hadn’t. The ground didn’t stop moving when his eyes did. He’d just have to keep his mouth shut about military history around the CO. Matuchek obviously wasn’t much of a scholar.

He’d also have to take it easy next time the other company officers invited him into town with them. Sirroci, Owens, and O’Farrell had called it his “initiation” to South Korea, and they must have hit every bar in Tongduch’on before lurching back to camp. He thought he could remember eating dinner in some tiny cafe, but he couldn’t remember exactly what he’d eaten. Judging from the raw, burning feeling in his stomach and throat, it must have been liberally laced with garlic and some really hot red peppers. Of course, from what he’d seen of Korean cuisine so far, that could describe just about anything.

With an effort he tried to stop concentrating on his hangover and to start thinking about just where his platoon sergeant might be closeted at this time in the morning.

Kevin found Sergeant Pierce in the platoon armory supervising a weapons-cleaning detail. Ten men in work fatigues were busy scrubbing away at every moving part of their rifles. It was one of those boring, routine, and absolutely necessary jobs that occupy most of a modern soldier’s time. To keep an M16 up and firing took a liberal amount of 10-weight sewing machine oil and a daily cleaning.

Kevin’s ROTC instructors had gone to great lengths to make sure that he knew that a jammed M16 could be just as fatal for its owner as a tank that wouldn’t run. That was something Sergeant Pierce obviously agreed with wholeheartedly, and he spent a lot of time making sure that 2nd Platoon’s weapons were clean and ready for action.

Kevin poked his head into the small, cramped room and motioned the sergeant outside to give him a quick rundown on their new orders.

“Malibu West, sir?” Pierce was considerate; he kept his voice below its normal booming level.

“That’s right, Sergeant. And the captain wants us up and out of here by oh two hundred tomorrow.” Kevin knew the sergeant and he were going to be damned busy for the next few hours. The logistics involved in moving forty-five men, their personal gear, two M60 light machine guns, three Dragon antitank guided missile launchers, and a week’s worth of supplies up to the DMZ were incredibly complicated. Among other things he had to arrange transportation for his platoon, get the latest artillery support plan, set up his communications — everything, in fact, down to making sure the platoon’s mail would get delivered. Just thinking about it threatened to turn his headache into a real bastard of a migraine.

Pierce eyed him closely. “Look, Lieutenant, I’ll start pulling things together for the move. That’s all SOP anyway.”

Yeah, thank God for SOP — standard operating procedures. Anything the Army had to do more than three times was written down as SOP. He could find the information he needed in the Army’s bible for troop movements, Army Manual FM 55–30, catchily titled “Army Motor Transport Operations.” There were always shortcuts that experienced officers could use that weren’t covered in the manuals. But Kevin knew he had a long way to go before he could consider himself experienced.

“You don’t need to worry about a thing, sir. The boys have been up to Malibu West so often they could probably load everything up in their sleep,” Pierce said.

“Right, Sergeant.” Kevin cleared his throat. “You go ahead and get started then. I’ll tell Lieutenant Rhee about our new orders and meet you back at the barracks to go over the movement ops order.”

Pierce saluted and left whistling. Kevin watched him leave, envying the man’s seeming ability to take anything that happened in stride.

He turned on his heel and headed for the two-story, whitewashed BOQ to find his South Korean counterpart, Lieutenant Rhee.

Under the Combined Forces structure set up back in 1978, virtually every American line and staff officer had a South Korean counterpart assigned to handle liaison with the ROK Army. It was a step that had been taken partly for political reasons — to smooth over growing South Korean resentment that an American general always commanded all allied forces. But it was also a very practical concept. In a situation where there were more than fifteen South Korean soldiers for every American, the counterpart system helped make sure that language and cultural barriers didn’t impede military efficiency as much as they might have.

When Kevin had arrived at Camp Howze, Rhee had been off attending some kind of staff course, so he’d only met the Korean lieutenant a couple of times. But they’d gotten along fairly well, and Rhee spoke perfect English. So perfect in fact that Kevin felt embarrassed that he’d only been able to pick up a few sentences of phrasebook Korean.

Second Lieutenant Rhee Han-Gil, wearing a crisp, newly pressed uniform, opened the door to his room at Kevin’s first knock and waved him in. Except for a cigarette smoldering in an ashtray on the desk, the room looked ready for an inspection by the entire General Staff. Every book was perfectly aligned, Rhee’s clothes hung in regulation order, and the sheets on his cot were pulled so tight that it looked like you could bounce even a paper won — the Korean currency — off it. The South Korean lieutenant seemed just as ready for an inspection. He was shorter than Kevin and stocky, but he had a lean, sharp-featured face.

“What can I do for you, Lieutenant Little?” Like most Koreans, Rhee was a stickler for titles. The easygoing, informal way most Americans spoke to each other was completely alien to people raised in a culture steeped in the need to show respect for authority. Rhee would have been shocked if Kevin started calling him by his first name.

“We’ve got movement orders — short-notice ones.” Kevin tried not to let his dislike for Captain Matuchek show. “We’re being sent up to some place called Malibu West for a week.”

“Ah, yes, Malibu West. I have been there before. I’m afraid that it is not nearly so glamorous as the real Malibu in California must be.” Rhee smiled slightly.

Kevin let that pass. He’d never been to Malibu anyway. “Yeah. Well, we’re moving out early tomorrow morning, so I thought I’d better let you know. You’ll need to be packed and ready to go by oh two hundred.”

The Korean pointed to a duffel bag standing in the corner. “Thank you, but there is no need. I am quite ready. But I can make use of the time to coordinate with the units holding the other outposts on our flanks.”

“How the hell … did Matuchek already tell you we were moving up to the Z?” Kevin asked, irritated that the captain might be trying to make him look like an ill-informed idiot.

Rhee looked apologetic. “Oh, no. The captain didn’t tell me anything. It’s just that the communists caught my country sleeping once before. We shall never be caught that way again. We’re trained to be ready for any eventuality.”

“Well, you’re way ahead of me on this one,” Kevin admitted. He paused, realizing it was probably time to swallow a little more pride. “Look, if you’ve been up to this place before, maybe you can give me some advice on what to take up there. I mean, besides the usual, my combat gear, rifle, stuff like that.”

Rhee nodded. “Of course, I’d be honored to assist you in any way I can.” He thought for a moment. “First, I should take a set of extra blankets if I were you. The nights are growing colder and we won’t have any heat up at the outpost.”

Kevin was surprised. “What? Well, hell, why don’t we take a couple of camp stoves with us then?” Christ, you’d have thought some bright Army officer before him would have figured that one out.

Rhee didn’t look impressed. “Unfortunately,” he said, “camp stoves produce smoke. And the communists have the unpleasant habit of using smoke as an aiming point for the occasional mortar shell.”

Mortars? Oh, brother, this was getting worse and worse. A posting to West Germany would have been so much better. The Russians and their East German puppets might be a dour lot, but at least they didn’t lob mortar shells over the inter-German border on a whim.

Kevin shook his head. “Okay, no camp stoves. Blankets instead. Anything else unusual I should bring?”

Rhee flexed his fingers. “Well, you might bring along a deck of cards.” He twisted his Korean Military Academy class ring back and forth. “A good game of your American five-card stud always helps to pass the time.”

So, Mr. Perfect enjoyed a game of poker, did he? Kevin concealed his surprise. He’d been in the country long enough to learn that the South Koreans were a proud people. It wouldn’t do to offend or shame Rhee by making a big deal out of the fact that he liked to play cards. After all, it wasn’t as if he had a surplus of friends over here. He grinned. “Okay, you’re on. I’ll see you on the parade ground at oh one thirty tomorrow.”

Rhee smiled back. “As you American say, it’s a date.”

“And Lieutenant,” he said as Kevin moved to the door, “I thought your point about the machine guns in today’s exercise was very interesting.”

“Yeah, well, thanks. But I’m afraid the captain didn’t exactly think so.”

Rhee didn’t exactly smile either, but Kevin could swear he saw an eyebrow twitch upward. “The captain is, of course, a good soldier. Is there anything so perfect, however, that it cannot be improved?”

Kevin sketched a rough salute and stepped out of Rhee’s quarters in a happier mood. Things might finally be looking up, and even his hangover seemed to be fading.

So his Korean counterpart liked to play cards. Well, if he was going to be stuck in some godforsaken hole for a week, he might as well make the best of it. Colonels, captains, and majors always seemed to be able to read the least bit of indecision on his face in military matters, but card games were something else altogether. He could hold his own there. Rhee couldn’t possibly know that playing poker had supplied him with spending money all the way through college.

He headed back to the platoon barracks. Sergeant Pierce might be perfectly able to handle all the arrangements for the move on his own, but he’d better get some idea of just what was involved. It would beat sitting on his behind in his quarters, moping around. He stopped in his tracks for a second. My God, maybe he was actually getting used to this place.

Kevin remembered that optimistic thought sourly as he watched his platoon assemble on the floodlit parade ground early the next morning. The sun wouldn’t be up for several more hours yet, and a cold north wind made the darkness outside Camp Howze seem even blacker. He pulled his fatigue jacket tighter around him, trying to stay warm, and did his best to look alert as Sergeant Pierce called the roll.

The platoon had already loaded their gear on the row of canvas-sided Army trucks parked behind him. Now the men were lined up, shivering at ease, as Pierce took a last check — making sure that nobody got left behind, snug in a warm bunk.

“Walton?” Pierce wasn’t shouting, but his voice carried across the parade ground.

“Here.”

“Wright?” Silence.

Pierce waited a couple of seconds and tried again, “Wright? Look you dumb bastard, I saw you loading a truck not more than two minutes ago. So answer up.”

“Yeah, Ah’m here, Sarge. Guess Ah must’ve fallen asleep. It’s just so cozy here in Ko-rea.” The other men chuckled softly. PFC Wright’s deep Arkansas twang and deadpan delivery made him the platoon comic.

Kevin waited for the platoon sergeant to come down loud and hard on Wright, but he didn’t. Instead, Pierce just chuckled himself and said, “Okay, Funnyman. You think it’s so warm? Then I guess I won’t hear any complaints from you when you pull sentry duty tomorrow night.”

That brought a laugh from the rest of the platoon. “Way to go, Johnny,” called someone from the ranks to Wright. “Thanks for volunteering. We’ll be thinking of you while we’re freezing in our sleeping bags.”

“Aww, Sarge,” Wright tried again. “You know Ah got me a delicate type of chest condition. Walking a beat could send mah poor little soul right up to heaven.”

But Pierce was waiting for that one. “Well, PFC, be sure to give my regards to St. Peter then. I’ll let him know you’re on the way.” Even Wright broke up laughing. Kevin felt himself smiling in the darkness and tried to stop. He had to maintain his dignity, didn’t he? But he could hear Rhee, standing beside him, laughing as hard as all the rest.

“Okay, troops. Settle down,” Pierce said. “The sooner we get this roll call finished, the sooner we can get in out of this damned wind.” That shut them up.

“Yates?”

“Here.”

“Zelinsky?”

“Here, Sergeant.”

Pierce shoved his clipboard back under his arm. “Tenshun!”

The platoon snapped to attention.

Pierce turned to Kevin. “Platoon present and accounted for, sir!” He saluted.

Kevin stepped out of the shadows and returned the salute. He took a line out of the movies. “Very good, Sergeant. Load ’em up.”

The sergeant wheeled back to face the platoon. “You heard the lieutenant.

Let’s go. Everybody on the trucks!” The men broke ranks and started clambering into the canvas-sided trucks, one eleven-man squad per vehicle.

Kevin pulled himself into the passenger seat of the lead truck. Rhee clambered into the one just behind him, and Pierce took the last truck in the convoy.

The five trucks wheeled off the parade ground and roared out through the main gate. Once on the highway running past the camp, they turned north and lumbered toward the DMZ.

Camp Howze was only about fifteen kilometers behind the DMZ but the trip to the assembly point took nearly two hours. Every kilometer or so they were stopped at fully manned checkpoints, complete with barricades, barbed wire, and machine guns. And at every checkpoint their papers were scrutinized by submachine gun-toting South Korean security troops. Kevin didn’t know what made him more nervous, the intense security or the possibility that it was necessary.

At last they turned off the main highway onto a tree-lined dirt road winding up a narrow valley. The corporal driving the lead truck slowed down to a crawl, and the ear-splitting engine noise fell away to a low, dull roar. A helmeted soldier appeared in the headlight’s beams, waving a flashlight fitted with a red lens. The driver said, “There’s our ground guide.”

Reaching forward, he doused the truck’s headlights, turning on the dim red blackout lights.

Startled, Kevin turned to ask him just what he thought he was doing.

The man drove and kept his eyes on his guide. “Regulations, sir. We’re within five klicks of the Z here and we’re not supposed to make it any easier for the North Koreans to know what we’re up to.”

Kevin had to admit that made some sense. He sat back and tried to act nonchalant as they drove slowly up the valley.

The assembly point was a small clearing just behind the trenches and bunkers of the main line of resistance, the MLR. They were ten minutes behind schedule. Kevin clambered out of the truck cab and walked toward the lone figure who had guided them. Urged on by Sergeant Pierce’s low, hoarse voice, his men clambered out of the trucks and formed up in a column of twos. It was still pitch-dark outside. The moon had set and low clouds covered most of the night sky.

The red beam came up and centered on his face.

“Second Platoon from Alpha?”

Kevin nodded, then realized the man probably couldn’t see him all that clearly. “Yeah. You the guide to Malibu West?”

“Sergeant Hourigan, sir. Third Platoon, Bravo Company. Lieutenant Miller’s waiting back up at the outpost. If you’re ready, sir, we should hit the trail. Sunup’s in a little over an hour and a half, and we’ve got some hard walking to do by then.”

“Okay.” Kevin half-turned toward the column behind him. “Sergeant Pierce?”

“Here, sir. Platoon’s assembled and ready to move.”

Kevin turned back to their guide. “Okay, Hourigan. Let’s do it.”

Hourigan lead them out through an opening in the rolls of barbed wire strung along the MLR. The ground was rough and uneven, but even in the dark Kevin could see that every tree or tall patch of brush had been cut down or uprooted to provide clear fields of fire for the troops stationed behind them.

Hourigan stopped suddenly, then moved over to the left a few yards. Kevin followed him. The sergeant reached over and tapped him on the shoulder. “See them white stakes up ahead, Lieutenant?”

Kevin nodded.

“Well, there’s a pair every few yards. Stay between ’em unless you want to get blown to bits. We’re going through the main minefield now.”

The column pushed on, moving slower now that they were in the minefield. Kevin kept going, trying to keep pace with Hourigan. He brushed away sweat that was beginning to trickle into his eyes. Jesus, he hadn’t carried a fifty-pound pack since basic. He could feel his heart pounding. In the still night air every scuffed rock, patch of dried grass, or broken twig made a noise he could swear would carry for miles.

At last they came out of the minefield and started up a winding trail that got steeper and steeper. They began passing through piles of boulders lying half-buried on the slope. Kevin could feel the straps of his pack starting to cut into his shoulders as they climbed. God, this was a damned high hill. It hadn’t looked this bad on the map.

A voice broke through the darkness. “Halt.” It was accompanied by the sound of a machine gun’s being cocked. Shit.

The sentry called, “Advance and be recognized.” The party walked forward in the pitch-blackness. After a dozen steps they heard, “That’s far enough. Marbles-Galore.”

The sergeant stopped. “It’s Hourigan, you dumb son of a bitch.”

“I don’t give a shit. Give the countersign or you’re a deader.”

“Zebra-Cardinal.”

“Okay, Come ahead.” They could hear the safety being snapped back on. Kevin ran a hand across his face and wiped it across the front of his jacket. Damn, what a bunch of paranoid assholes.

The platoon stumbled over the crest of Hill 640 and into the middle of Malibu West. Another column was there, waiting to go down.

A figure wearing black plastic bars stepped out from the head of the other column. “Little? I’m Miller. Glad to see you’re here. Look, let’s go into the command post and I’ll get you settled in before I head down after my troops. Hourigan and your platoon sergeant can get your men squared away.”

Kevin still couldn’t quite make out the man’s face in the darkness, but he could tell that it was getting lighter.

He followed Miller down a couple of steps into a low, lamp-lit bunker. The command post, or CP, was scarcely five feet high, made of green sandbags with a beamed ceiling. Inside, it was barely big enough for the two cots, a table, telephone, and backup radio. And it stank. A mixture of unwashed bodies, damp mustiness, and old food hung in the air. Kevin tried not to breathe in too deeply.

Miller laughed. “I know. It’s pretty bad, isn’t it? Our laundry and bathing facilities aren’t exactly first class up here. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.” The other lieutenant had dark shadows under his eyes.

He motioned Kevin over to a low table crowded with a map and a communications setup. “Okay, here are your fire concentrations.” Kevin could see a sheaf of plastic overlays with colored-pencil markings showing preregistered artillery firing points and code numbers.

Miller continued on down the table. “Your radio, field phones, sound-powered phones to your squad leaders and the other outposts nearby, one to your company CP back on the MLR, and the artillery direct line.” Kevin nodded his understanding.

“Any questions?”

Kevin shook his head, then thought better of it. “Just one. Has it been hectic up here lately?”

“Nah. Pretty damned quiet — for once. Only one alert, the usual ‘hold your ass and pray until the all-clear comes.’ ” Miller stood up, stooped low to avoid the roof. “Okay. That’s it then. Good luck and I’ll see you back at the camp.” He held out his hand.

Kevin shook it, suddenly realizing that Miller couldn’t wait to get out of Malibu West. Well, he couldn’t blame him for that.

Miller nodded and ducked back out the door up into the cleaner air outside.

Kevin sat down heavily onto one of the bunks. Great, he had a whole week in this combination rattrap and outhouse to look forward to. He dropped his pack off onto the ground by his feet. At least that felt better. Then he remembered that he’d better report the platoon in to Captain Matuchek back in position along the main line. He stepped over to pick up the phone to the company CP.

Now, just where the hell was that list of code names he was supposed to use? Kevin fished around in the pockets of his fatigue jacket before coming up with a small pad of radio codes.

He lifted the field phone’s receiver. “Alfa Echo Five Six. Alfa Echo Five Six. This is Alfa Echo Five Two.”

“Go ahead, Echo Five Two. This is Echo Five Six.” The line was clear of static. Good, he could call for help without much trouble if he needed it. That was reassuring.

“Echo Five Six, Echo Five Two is in position. Say again, Echo Five Two is in position.”

“Roger, Two. You’re in position. Out.”

Kevin put the phone back down on the table and rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t gotten any sleep the night before, and he knew he’d have to stay awake at least until past dawn to make a daylight inspection of the position.

He looked at his watch: 0535. The sun should be up in twenty minutes or so. He could see the sky outside growing grayer.

Pierce stuck his head in the door a few minutes later. “I think it’s light enough to take a quick walk around now, Lieutenant.”

Kevin sat up sharply. It was growing orange outside now. The sun must be coming up over the horizon. Oh, crap. He’d fallen asleep, just nodded right off on his first tour of duty up at the DMZ. He blinked and staggered to his feet, barely stopping himself from trying to stand full upright under the CP’s low roof.

He followed Pierce out into a connecting trench dug from the CP out to the edge of the hill. It tied into the main trench running completely around the outpost. Rhee joined them there for the inspection of their home for the next week.

Malibu West was laid out in a rough oval with a six-foot-deep trench connecting twelve reinforced log bunkers large enough to shelter four men during an enemy air or artillery attack. Each bunker was separated by about fifteen yards of trench. Firing steps along the trench made it possible for troops to use their weapons against a ground assault. Two belts of barbed wire and a minefield completed the defenses.

As an outpost, Malibu West and its defenders were expected to fight pretty much on their own, though with liberal artillery support. Malibu and the other strongpoints like it scattered along the DMZ were intended to make an enemy assault force deploy for an attack before it reached the main allied line. It was hoped they would delay an assault long enough to allow the UN command to bring American and South Korean air and artillery power into play and to move reserves to the right places. In essence, the men holding the outposts were expected to buy time with their lives.

“I’ve put our two MG’s in the far left and far right bunkers on the forward slope. That should give us good coverage to the front. And we’ve inherited another MG with the position. Lieutenant Miller had it set up to cover the rear slope, and I figured that was a pretty good place for it so I left it there.” Pierce paused.

“Sounds good to me.” Kevin yawned. Damn, he’d have to start waking up. “Any comments, Lieutenant Rhee?”

The South Korean looked wide-awake. Naturally. “No. It sounds like a reasonable deployment to me. But what about our Dragon teams?” That was a good question. The Dragon teams with their wire-guided missiles were the 2nd Platoon’s best defense against enemy tanks and APCs.

“I’ve got ’em spread out along the forward slope. If the balloon goes up and NK tanks start getting around behind us, we may have to move ’em. But they’ve got good fields of fire where they are right now.”

Kevin nodded. “All right, Sergeant. Good work.” He worked his tongue around inside his mouth, trying to clear out the gritty taste he’d acquired during his short, unintentional nap. He looked at Rhee. “I understand there’s a South Korean platoon holding the next outpost over from us. Why don’t you go over to the CP and make contact with them. Let them know we’re here. Okay?”

Rhee smiled and sketched a salute. “No problem, Lieutenant.”

“Great. Oh, and then get some sleep. I thought we’d pull three watches until we get settled in. I’ll take the first, Sergeant Pierce here can take the second, and you’ll take the third. Sound all right to you?”

Rhee smiled even more broadly. “Certainly, Lieutenant. I’m always glad to hear that I’ll get some uninterrupted sleep.” He saluted again and moved back down the trench toward the CP.

Kevin yawned again and stretched. He’d have to get Zelinsky to make some coffee. In the meantime he could get a look at the terrain around Malibu. He’d studied the map, but you couldn’t always trust maps. There was that time he’d gotten lost on a night training march near Fort Lewis … it had just been damn lucky that he’d found a gas station where he could ask for directions.

Kevin shook his head to clear the memory. He’d learned his lesson that time. Never trust maps. He clambered up onto the firing step and lifted his binoculars. Let’s see. Hill 640, Malibu West, fell sharply away down a rocky slope into a narrow, brush-filled valley. There were gullies running through the valley and up toward a ridgeline to the north. He could just make out what might be some camouflaged bunkers on that ridge.

A hand grabbed his combat webbing and yanked him down off the firing step.

“What the fuck?” Kevin wheeled in fury as Pierce let go of his webbing.

“Sorry, sir.” Pierce didn’t sound very sorry. “But part of what they pay me for is to make sure that my lieutenants don’t get shot on their first day up at the Z.”

“And what does that have to do with grabbing me from behind just now?” Kevin was breathing hard. He’d been startled. Christ, he hadn’t even heard Pierce come up behind him. The man must move like a ghost.

“Snipers, Lieutenant. The North Koreans take a special pride in potting people staring at ’em with shiny binoculars. You want to look around up at the Z, you use the ’scopes.” Pierce jerked a thumb toward a periscope that could be raised above the trench parapet.

“Oh, bullshit. I know that the North Koreans are lunatics, but they can’t just go around shooting people. There is an armistice on, you know.”

“You know it and I know it, Lieutenant. But I ain’t too sure the gooks know it or give a damn.” Pierce had his voice pitched low. “Look, sir. This isn’t peacetime up here. This is damn close to the real thing. Back when I was just a green PFC, before Vietnam, I was stationed at a place pretty much like this.” He paused.

“So things haven’t changed much in more than twenty years. What’s the point?” Kevin was impatient. It was starting to warm up, the sun was in his eyes, and he wanted some coffee.

“Well, sir, this rear-area general came up for an inspection one day. Now, the lieutenant gave him a pretty good tour of the bunkers, trenches, and all, but this general wanted to see the commies for himself. And he wouldn’t hear of using anything like that ’scope over there. So he just jumped up on the firing step and wouldn’t listen to the lieutenant asking him to get down. He didn’t listen until some commie sniper put a round through his head.” Pierce laid a finger on the bridge of his nose, right between his eyes. “Right there, Lieutenant. Knocked that dumbshit general off the firing step and blew what little brains he had out through the back of his head.”

“Christ!” Kevin was shocked. “How come I never read anything about that?”

“Hell, I suppose they hushed it up. Damned embarrassing way to lose a general, I guess.”

“Well, what happened to your lieutenant?”

“They weren’t too happy with him. Wasn’t his fault, so they couldn’t send him to Leavenworth, but they did shove his ass out of the Army in a godawful hurry.”

Kevin thought about that for a moment and then smiled ruefully. “Okay, Sergeant. You’ve made your point. You won’t lose this dumbshit lieutenant the same way.”

Pierce grinned back at him, “That’s the spirit, Lieutenant. It’s just a question of experience. And there’s one thing you can say for the Z — you get experienced real quick.”

After six days Kevin had had enough of Malibu West. Six days of solid boredom. Of not being able to move freely during daylight. Of lousy food and not enough sleep. Six days that were too hot and six nights that were too cold.

The only high points were the daily poker games with Rhee, Pierce, and a couple of the other noncoms. Playing cards with his NCOs might not be regulation, but it helped pass the time. Table stakes were low because it wouldn’t do to have officers winning too much money from their subordinates. Still, he’d won more than he’d lost. And it had been nice to see a look of genuine respect on Sergeant Pierce’s face for once.

But that had been it. Other than a series of meaningless, routine daily reports and a single, quick inspection by Captain Matuchek, who’d seemed pleasantly surprised to find the outpost still intact, their tour at Malibu West had been about as exciting as guarding a convent somewhere in the Midwest.

That made the call even more shocking when it came.

“Sir!” The hand that was shaking him shook even harder. “Sir!”

Kevin groaned and tried to roll over. It was still dark out and he’d been up past midnight filling out useless paperwork.

“Sir!” It was Jones, his radioman. “Captain’s on the phone, sir. Says it’s urgent.”

Shit. Now what the hell did he want. Probably wanted to bitch about some goddamned form he’d filled in wrong. Kevin threw the blankets off his cot and stumbled over to the phone.

“Alfa Echo Five Six, this is Alfa Echo Five Two. Go ahead.”

“Five Two, this is Five Six. Wait one.” Great, they woke him up and now they were going to make him wait. But the line came alive again in seconds, and something in Matuchek’s voice brought Kevin up straight. “Five Two, this is Five Six. Go to full alert. Say again, go to full alert. We have a general stand-to all along the Z.”

Oh, Christ. Kevin could feel his heart starting to pound and he was having trouble catching his breath. “Six, this is Two. Is this a drill? Over.”

Matuchek’s wrath came over the phone loud and clear. “I don’t fucking know. And right now I don’t fucking care! Just get your men out on the firing line and clear the goddamned phone. Six out.”

Kevin handed the phone back to Jones and looked around for his M16, flak jacket, and helmet. They were in the corner of the CP, right where he’d left them. Rhee was already up and buckling on his gear.

Kevin turned back to Jones. “Okay, get Pierce in here. On the double.” He took a deep breath, but he couldn’t seem to get enough air into his lungs. Shit, shit, calm down. He grabbed his flak jacket and started to put it on, then realized he had it backward. He flipped the bulky jacket around and slipped into it. Rhee handed him his helmet.

“What’s up, Lieutenant?” Pierce was in the door to the CP, rifle in hand and looking as awake as if he’d already been up for hours.

“We’ve got an alert. All along the DMZ. I don’t know if it’s for real or not, but you’d better get the men up and in position anyway.” Kevin grabbed his rifle and map case.

Pierce backed out of the CP and vanished down the shadow-filled connecting trench, moving toward the nearest bunker. Rhee headed out the other door. Kevin followed him as far as the main trench, accompanied by Jones, lugging the platoon’s commo gear.

The moon was up and nearly full, casting an eerie mix of orangish light and pitch-black shadows across the valley below. Gusts of a cold north wind stirred the brush back and forth and whined through the coils of barbed wire covering the approaches to Malibu West.

Kevin fumbled with the focus on the periscope. Damn it. For all he could make out, the valley down there could be filled with a thousand enemy soldiers. Or it could be empty.

The eleven troopers of 2nd Squad jogged past him, equipment rattling as they fanned out down the length of the trench and clambered up onto firing steps.

“Sir!” Jones’s hoarse whisper pulled Kevin’s eyes away from the periscope and back down into the trench. “Sergeant Pierce says everybody’s up and in position. Nothing else to report.”

“Tell Pierce to get back here pronto. And check with Company to see if they’ve got anything more.”

Pierce was there almost before he finished speaking. “We’re set, Lieutenant. One of the Dragon launchers is acting up a bit, but Ramos is working on it. Should have it up in a couple of minutes.”

“Well, he goddamned well better. Christ, what if we get hit by tanks in the next couple of minutes!” Kevin realized he was starting to sound like he’d lost it and tried to calm down. He got down off the parapet and squatted in the trench next to Pierce. “Look, are we picking anything up on our motion sensors or starlight scopes?”

“Negative. There doesn’t seem to be anything moving or warm out there.”

“Then this could all be just a false alarm.”

Pierce shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. Could be a long night, though, whichever way it goes.”

A shout from down the line brought them both to their feet. “Flares! Flares to the east!”

Kevin whipped his periscope around to stare down to the right. There, about five miles away, he could see two magnesium flares swaying away south on their parachutes. He found himself praying under his breath. God, oh God, please don’t let this be real. Don’t let there be a war. Please, God.

“Could be an attack down that way.” Pierce still sounded calm. “Might just be an infiltration attempt though.” He cupped a hand to an ear. “I don’t hear any shooting.”

Rhee’s voice drifted down the line, high and excited. “Those flares are coming from a point just over Azure Dragon. That’s the ROK post on our right.”

Kevin yelled back, “Well, get on the horn and ask them what the hell’s going on.”

“Lieutenant?” Pierce coughed lightly to catch his attention. “Next time you and Lieutenant Rhee want to have a conversation, you might not want to yell it all over creation. If there are gooks down there, I figure they probably know we’re awake and ready for ’em now.”

Kevin felt his ears burning. Pierce was right and there wasn’t any way around it. He’d make a stupid mistake. The kind that Major Donaldson had warned could get his men killed. He looked down at Corporal Jones. “Uh, pass the word to Lieutenant Rhee that he’s to report here after he’s talked to that Korean outpost.”

They waited for several more minutes, but no more flares popped up to light the night sky, and everything stayed quiet. Rhee came jogging down the trench and jumped up beside Kevin and Pierce.

“I talked to the CO over at Azure Dragon. It seems that one of their new conscripts got overexcited and fired off a pair of flares. He’ll be disciplined, of course.”

Kevin knew that meant the poor little sod was probably getting the living crap beat out of him. And just at this moment, he didn’t care a bit.

Then Jones was grabbing for his elbow again. “Sir! It’s the captain!”

Kevin picked up the phone with a feeling of dread. Was this it? Was the balloon going up? “Alfa Echo Five Six, this is Five Two.”

“Alfa Echo Five Two, this is Alfa Echo Five Six. Stand down. I repeat, stand down. Resume normal schedule. That was a drill, Lieutenant, a real McLaren Special.”

“Acknowledged, Five Six.” He tried to sound cool and collected, but he knew that Matuchek had to be able to hear the immense relief in his voice. He could see Pierce and Rhee visibly relaxing at what they could hear of the conversation.

“Well, Lieutenant. Are your britches full of brown organic matter?” Matuchek didn’t sound quite as pissed off as he usually did, despite the words.

“Not quite, Five Six. Close, but not quite.” Pray God that Matuchek didn’t ever find out just how close to the truth that was.

“Well, Lieutenant. If that McLaren Special didn’t fill ’em up, I guess we might make a soldier of you yet. See you back at camp tomorrow morning. Echo Five Six out.”

Kevin hung up, feeling drained and shaky. But relieved, too. He’d screwed up, but it hadn’t been for real. And he still had time to learn.