Red Phoenix

CHAPTER 35 Boiling Point

“Idti napravo!”

“Smotri Pozadi!”

Blake Fowler watched the frown on the President’s face grow deeper as he listened to the taped voices and bursts of static. The Chief Executive seemed to have aged at least ten years in the nine days since casualty reports began streaming in from Korea. Fatigue and tension had worn new furrows in his face, his hair had thinned noticeably, and the eyes that had looked so open and honest in TV campaign commercials were now red-rimmed and darkly shadowed. Looking at him, Blake decided that the only thing that must be worse than governing the United States during a war was governing it during a war that was being lost.

When the tape came to an end, the President sat quietly for a moment, staring across his desk at a point somewhere off in space. Then he reached out and laid a finger on the printout in front of him. “And this is a verbatim transcript and translation of what I’ve just heard?”

“Yes, Mr. President. One of our signals intelligence aircraft intercepted those transmissions from the MiG-29 fighters engaging Navy jets over the Yellow Sea two days ago.”

“Why’d it take so damned long to get here?”

Blake didn’t react to the President’s irritation. It was understandable, if unfair. “Rivet intercepts literally thousands of hours worth of enemy communications, sir. It takes time and a lot of expertise to ferret out the wheat from the chaff. They found this transmission at two o’clock this morning, our time.”

The President eyed Blake angrily for a second longer, then his gaze softened, and he wearily nodded his understanding. He swung round toward the Oval Office window. Snow cloaked the Rose Garden. The high-backed chair muffled his voice when he spoke again. “The U.N. Security Council is meeting again tonight to discuss the situation in Korea, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. At seven o’clock. The Soviets have been delaying things with procedural motions, but they’ve run out of those.”

The President swiveled back to face Blake. He put a hand on the cassette tape player in front of him. “Well, what do you think about using this in the debate?”

Blake considered his answer carefully. “The intelligence community will object, sir, but — ”

“I’m not asking them. I’m asking you.”

“Yes, Mr. President, you are.” Blake took his glasses off briefly, polished them with a handkerchief, and put them back on his nose. “I think we should play every last second of this intercept. Normally, it’s vital to protect intelligence sources and methods, but the North Koreans know we have things like Rivet. We wouldn’t be fooling anybody by denying it. We’ve used them in the past to prove our case. The political impact of those tapes outweighs normal security precautions.”

He paused, feeling slightly uneasy at speaking of politics so glibly. It made him sound like George Putnam. “The truth is, Mr. President, this war’s being fought on more than just the physical level. We’ve got to win both the international PR and global political battles as well.”

The President nodded again. “Agreed. Hell, I’d just like to win somewhere sometime.”

Blake stayed silent. He understood the President’s frustration and concern. He’d also begun to catch a glimmering of the strategy McLaren seemed to be pursuing and approved of it. He just hoped they could keep the lid on things outside Korea long enough for the general to put his plans into effect.

“All right then, we’ll send these up to New York by special messenger.” The President’s eyes narrowed. “And that’s not all I’m going to send. I want those Russian bastards to know just how seriously we view this.” He picked up the phone. “June, get me the secretary of state, please.”

He put a hand across the mouthpiece and looked closely at Blake. “Paul Bannerman helped get us into this mess. Now maybe he can help get us out of it.”

Before he could reply, Blake heard a voice from the receiver and kept quiet as the President started speaking. “Yeah, hello, Paul… Yes, I’ve heard them… Yes, we’re going to use them… When? Why, hell, tonight, that’s when. Look, Paul, I want you up at the Security Council for the debate … Yes, I want you to lead our side of it… Instructions? Give them hell… Nope, that’s it. Those are my instructions. You know what to do. Good luck, Paul. I’ll be watching.”

The President hung up slowly and looked steadily across the desk at Blake. “Now we’ll see just how far my so-called friend in Moscow’s ‘earnest desire for peace’ really goes.”

For once the scrambled phone connection to Beijing was miraculously free of atmospheric interference.

“Do you have any questions?” The Premier’s tone made it clear that he didn’t expect any. He sounded tired, worn out by an all-night debate that had lead to this call.

“No, comrade. Your instructions are clear and I shall carry them out without hesitation.” The ambassador stood holding the phone while watching the rush-hour traffic stream past below his Manhattan office. He eyed his watch. It was indeed fortunate that this last-minute call from the PRC’s Politburo had caught him preparing for the evening’s scheduled Security Council meeting. In another few minutes he would have been enroute to the Council chambers and out of reach of secure communications.

“Excellent. Speak with me when you are done. The time will not matter.” The phone went dead.

The ambassador hung up slowly and then reached out and activated the intercom on his desk. “Send Comrade Chin in at once. We have some work to do before the debate begins.”

The high-ceilinged chamber was packed, every seat and aisle filled with diplomats from around the world, reporters, and security guards. A hundred whispered conversations rose from the crowd and mingled in a murmuring roar like that of the surf crashing on shore. This would be the first Security Council meeting on the situation in Korea that could be expected to go beyond dry procedural squabbling.

Paul Bannerman, the U.S. secretary of state, settled into the seat normally reserved for the Chief of the U.S. Mission to the United Nations and mopped delicately at his brow with a monogrammed silk handkerchief. The White House had quietly alerted the major TV networks to the fact that major diplomatic fireworks were in store for this session, and they’d all risen to the bait. His speech would be broadcast instantly into a hundred million homes all across America and into hundreds of millions more around the world. And Bannerman knew that sweat was the price he would pay for that kind of audience.

TV cameras needed light and lots of it, and the harsh, white lamps brought in by the networks had already turned the Security Council chamber into a steam bath. Despite that, everyone around the circular row of desks reserved for the Council’s five permanent and ten elected members still wore close-fitting, immaculately tailored wool suits. As always, diplomatic formality took precedence over comfort.

Bannerman kept his eyes on the U.N. Secretary General as members of his technical staff wheeled in the audio equipment he’d requested. The Secretary General had been briefed on what he planned and hadn’t seen any alternative but to comply. Bannerman knew that the U.N. chief ordinarily disliked theatrics, but he’d had to admit that these weren’t exactly ordinary circumstances. He sat up straighter as the Irishman cleared his throat and leaned closer to the microphone. “Mr. Secretary, the Security Council is assembled. Please proceed.”

Bannerman nodded and slowly laid his prepared remarks on the desk, moving deliberately to ensure that all eyes were on him before he spoke. He stayed seated while speaking, as the rules prescribed. Keeping delegates in their chairs was supposed to help keep tempers in check and prevent passions from being inflamed. He wasn’t sure that it ever made much difference in the end.

He began simply. “Mr. Secretary General, fellow members of the Security Council, and people of the world. This meeting is being held in a time of great crisis. Not just a crisis in my country or for the beleaguered Republic of Korea. No, not just for us. The events of this past week concern all members of the United Nations interested in peace and liberty and justice.”

Bannerman paused, surveying the crowd around him. The Soviet ambassador sat quietly, with an expression of carefully uncamouflaged boredom plastered across his face. The secretary hardened his voice and looked straight at the Russian. “We’re meeting tonight to respond to the naked aggression launched by North Korea in violation of an armistice secured by this very body.

“But first, I must raise a related issue of the highest possible consequence. I speak now of the actions taken by a member of this Security Council to assist North Korea’s aggression — actions that violate the spirit, if not the letter, of the resolutions adopted by the United Nations in June and July of 1950.” Bannerman paused again, listening to the murmurs that swept through the Security Council chambers at his words. Then he continued, “To be blunt I’m referring now to the Soviet Union’s decision to intervene militarily against the United Nations forces defending the Republic of Korea.”

A roar swept through the chamber at his words, a roar of outrage, shock, and shouted disbelief.

“Mr. Secretary General!” The Soviet representative was on his feet now, all pretense of uninterest tossed aside. “This is outrageous. My country will not tolerate such preposterous allegations, wherever they may originate from!”

“Mr. Vlasov” — the Secretary General’s voice was firm — “you are out of order. The American representative has the floor at this time. You’ll have ample opportunity to respond when it’s your turn to speak.” He looked at Bannerman. “Please continue, Mr. Secretary.”

Bannerman dipped his head in gratitude. The Secretary General didn’t always see eye to eye with American foreign policy, but he was always scrupulously fair. Bannerman scanned the chamber and then focused his eyes on the Soviet ambassador.

“Despite the protestations of the Soviet representative, my government is most assuredly not making wild or unfounded allegations. We have proof. Categorical and undeniable proof. Proof that Soviet pilots have engaged in combat with American planes in both international and South Korean airspace. We’ll play this evidence for you now.” He gestured to a technician standing by the audio equipment.

The man flicked a single switch and the tape began playing, translated simultaneously into the five official languages of the United Nations. First, a flat American voice identified the source of the sounds that would follow. “The radio transmissions on this tape were made by aircraft engaged in combat with U.S. Navy warplanes over the Yellow Sea at thirteen fifteen hours on one January.”

Then the voices came on — urgent Russian voices carrying warnings of missiles or American planes and triumphantly reporting kills. All in the Security Council chamber sat quietly, listening intently to the entire recording. Only the Soviet ambassador paid scant attention, scribbling a note that Bannerman saw passed to the Chinese representative. The PRC’s ambassador read through it impassively and handed the note back to an aide without comment.

When the Rivet tape ended in a faint wash of static, Bannerman let the silence build. He was surprised to find himself actually enjoying this. It took him back to his days as a junior prosecutor, long before he’d stepped into the murky world of politics. He leaned closer to the microphone. “Fellow members of the Security Council. What you’ve just heard isn’t a fake or fabrication. It is a matter of the utmost concern to us all. By its actions, the government of the Soviet Union has involved itself in direct hostilities against American forces serving under U.N. auspices.”

Bannerman pulled a sheaf of paper out from the stack in front of him and adjusted his half-frame reading glasses. “Accordingly, the United States moves that the Security Council adopt the following resolution…” The language of the resolution was as dry and legalistic as all U.N. documents always were, but its meaning was clear. By adopting the resolution, the Security Council would find the Soviet Union in violation of the U.N. Charter and of previous Security Council resolutions. Such a finding would authorize individual members of the U.N. to take any and all actions necessary to force the Soviets to end their support for North Korea’s invasion — actions up to and including economic and military sanctions. Bannerman secretly doubted that the resolution could achieve that end, even if it were passed.

U.N. resolutions usually weren’t worth the cost of printing them. But it would be an undeniable slap in Moscow’s face, a slap that might awaken some of the less militaristic members of the Politburo to the risks they were running with this Korean adventure.

He finished speaking and sat back to wait for the Soviet ambassador’s response. It wasn’t long in coming.

“The Americans have spoken of proof and played a paltry few minutes of cassette tape as if that were sufficient. But is it? I ask you to ask ourselves this: What have you heard? A few voices speaking Russian. Some static. And a claim that all of this came from planes engaged in combat.” The Russian paused, and Bannerman had to admire his poise. Vlasov’s earlier show of temper had faded as completely as a summer storm, and now his narrow, handsome face showed only good-natured amusement.

“The Americans have a saying, my friends, ‘Is it real or is it Memorex?’ ” Vlasov continued, having deliberately misquoted the well-known ad line. “Well, I suggest that what we have all heard tonight is Memorex — a tape of deliberate falsehoods created by the electronic specialists of the American CIA and NSA.”

Bannerman started to object, but the Russian held him off with a waved hand. “No, no, Mr. Secretary. You’ve had your turn at this. Allow me mine.”

Bannerman shrugged and sat back in his chair. He had a ready response to the Soviet allegations of forgery. Some snippets of the same transmissions had also been picked up by Japanese radio listening posts, and the Japanese government had assured Washington that it was prepared to back American claims that the Soviets were intervening in the war.

“But even if these unfounded allegations were true, it would not matter, and this Security Council would not be justified in adopting the absurd resolutions proposed by the United States.” Bannerman started, suddenly realizing that Vlasov had stopped speaking off the cuff and was now reading from a prepared statement. He frowned. The implications of the switch were clear and unpleasant. Moscow must have been ready for its involvement in the fighting to become public knowledge. And that suggested that the Politburo’s hard-liners were prepared to go a long way to back Pyongyang’s war.

“Even if individual Soviet citizens were engaged in actively defending a fellow Socialist state against South Korea’s aggression, their efforts as volunteers would have nothing whatever to do with the Soviet Union itself. The precedents are clear, and I need hardly remind the United States of some of the more obvious ones — for example, the service of the American Abraham Lincoln Brigade in the gallant struggle against fascism in Spain.”

Vlasov smiled unpleasantly. “In any event, the position of the Soviet government is clear. We are not in any way involved in this struggle, but our citizens are perfectly free to do as they wish.” He looked up from his written statement and spread his hands. “That is, after all, the essence of a free society, is it not?”

Then, abruptly, he finished. “The Soviet Union urges the defeat of this ridiculous and insulting resolution forthwith. We stand ready instead to work for a real and lasting end to this imperialist aggression against the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea.”

Bannerman was astounded. The Soviets were not only virtually admitting their involvement, they were practically daring the Security Council to try to do something about it. He’d expected them to make a more prolonged argument in an attempt to confuse the issue.

His chief aide leaned forward from the seat behind and touched his arm. “Looks like they’ve got the Chinese veto in their pockets.”

The Secretary nodded. No U.N. Security Council resolution could pass without the approval of its five permanent members — the United States, the Soviet Union, France, the United Kingdom, and the People’s Republic of China. Both the U.S. and the Soviet Union were parties to this dispute and therefore ineligible to vote, and both France and Britain clearly intended to side with the U.S. That left the PRC as the swing voter on the Council.

No measure it voted against could pass. And clearly the Soviets were confident that, in this case at least, they had China’s support. So confident that they didn’t feel it worthwhile to prolong debate.

Bannerman wasn’t surprised by that. China hadn’t openly sided with Kim Il-Sung’s war, but it hadn’t been very discreet about: its munitions shipments to him either. His Pacific Region specialists back at State had estimated the probability of a Chinese veto at around ninety percent. Only that NSC man, Fowler, hadn’t been so sure. At Fowler’s urging, they’d decided to avoid embarrassing China by dropping all references to the PRC’s support for North Korea in the proposed resolution or in his written statement. Well, thought Bannerman, the President’s new fair-haired boy was finally going to be proved wrong about something.

He turned his attention back to the debate. It didn’t last long. Two of the Soviet Union’s surrogates, Cuba and Poland, made fiery but pro forma denunciations of the resolution — denunciations that Bannerman found it easy to counter. Other countries around the circle made their customary speeches counseling the superpowers to show patience and restraint. And that was that. Neither side saw any advantage in a prolonged, confusing debate or in the intricate negotiations that often produced compromise resolutions without meaning or force. The United States wanted a straight up-or-down vote on its motion, and the Soviet Union saw little to fear in that.

The Secretary General looked bemused, as well he might, thought Bannerman. Chairing the Security Council emergency session must often seem more like running a marathon than supervising a debating society. But not tonight.

“Does any member wish to speak further on this issue?… No? Well, then, the question now arises on the resolution proposed by the United States.” The Secretary General arched a single, white eyebrow, obviously waiting for someone to object to his haste. No one did. The silence lasted until he began the roll call. “Brazil?”

“The Federative Republic of Brazil votes aye.”

“Poland?”

“The Polish People’s Republic opposes this needless and irresponsible resolution.”

Bannerman’s aide kept a quick, scratch-pad tally as the vote went on.

“The United Kingdom?”

“Her Majesty’s government votes aye.”

That put them over the top with nine votes. Now only China’s veto would stop the resolution from carrying. He folded his hands and waited for it. At least he’d gained the President a solid propaganda victory. And Bannerman knew that was about all the U.N. was good for these days. The Harvard-educated internationalist in him regretted that. The realist schooled in Washington, D.C.’s corridors of power knew such regrets were meaningless.

“The People’s Republic of China?”

Bannerman looked across the circle at the Chinese ambassador, a tall, spare man clothed in a fashionable gray suit and red tie. The man’s dark eyes met his as he spoke. “China abstains. We shall neither oppose nor support this resolution.”

The American secretary of state felt his jaw dropping open and closed it hurriedly. The room around him was in an uproar as the observer’s gallery realized what had just happened. The resolution had passed. He felt one of his aides clap him on the shoulder and saw the others grinning. He could also see the consternation on Vlasov’s face as the Russian grabbed one of his assistants and started working his way through the crowd toward the Chinese delegation.

Somehow the Secretary General’s soft brogue cut through all the hubbub in the Council Chamber. “The vote being nine to four, the motion is carried and the resolution is adopted. The Council will reconvene tomorrow evening at the same hour to consider its implementation.”

The Chinese ambassador stood calmly and began making his way out through the crowded aisles, ignoring the pandemonium all around him — a mass of shouting reporters, TV cameras, and stunned fellow diplomats. Bannerman watched him go and saw a broad-shouldered Chinese security guard shove Vlasov’s messenger bodily out of the way as the Russian tried to get closer.

Bannerman sat motionless in his chair, his mind working furiously despite all the commotion surrounding the American delegation. He’d felt the pieces in the international diplomacy game shift under his hands just now. Not because of the resolution. That was only a simple scrap of paper — devoid of real power. But China’s abstention… now that was something real.

Blake Fowler agreed wholeheartedly with the secretary of state’s assessment — something that would have surprised and disconcerted both men had they known of it. China’s position on the war seemed to have changed, however imperceptibly, and that had to be followed up.

He leaned across his desk and snapped off the small, portable TV perched precariously on one of his bookshelves. That done, he dropped back into his chair and rolled far enough away from the desk to poke his head out the door. “Katie, would you get Bob Gillespie, Harry Phelps, and that new guy, Kruger, up here right away? Say in” — he looked at his watch — “ten minutes or so?”

His secretary stopped in midyawn, nodded, and reached for her phone.

Fowler rolled back into his office, stopped, and then rolled back out. Katie was just starting to punch the Gillespies’ number into her phone. She paused as he stuck his head through the doorway again. “Yes?”

“Ask them to bring everything on the PRC they’ve got easily to hand — political data, economic status, military readiness, all that kind of stuff.”

“Right.”

Fowler went to work preparing for the meeting. It was tough to concentrate. His thoughts were jumping from one possibility to another and back again in a rapid, whirling sequence. He’d had an instinct about China and now it might really be panning out. He started paging through a pile of recent State Department, CIA, and academic analyses on China’s internal politics, but something nagged at him. Something he’d left undone.

It took him a few minutes to figure out what it was.

He got up out of his chair and leaned around the door. “Oh, Katie? Thanks.”

She smiled briefly and turned away to finish logging in another stack of NSA intercepts. Blake went back to work, doggedly trying to cram a mass of data on China into his overtired brain, information that he’d ignored while concentrating on South and North Korea for all these months.

Something important was happening inside the PRC’s carefully guarded government buildings, and he’d damned well do his best to find out just what exactly was going on.

Kim Jong-Il could smell the man’s fear and relished it. Its sickly sweet odor was a welcome reminder of the power he still wielded. It had helped him control the terrible wave of anger that had overcome him when the news from New York arrived. It had been news of a betrayal of the blackest sort. Kim clamped his lips together tightly at the thought. He must be careful, he knew, careful to control the rage surging just below the surface.

At least until he had a worthy target for his hate. It wouldn’t do at all to prove his foolish doctors right by suffering a heart attack — not during this most crucial of times. His political enemies would take full advantage of any weakness he showed.

Kim grimaced. He didn’t have time for these wasted thoughts. He stared at the man waiting rigidly at attention. “Well? Speak up. What is it?”

His aide’s voice quavered. “Your pardon, Dear Leader, the ambassador has arrived for his meeting.”

Kim nodded abruptly. “Show him in. And tell Captain Lew to stand ready. One cannot be too careful when dealing with creatures of this kind.” He dismissed the aide with an impatient gesture and concentrated on the matter closest at hand — Colonel General Cho’s latest report from the front.

“The ambassador from the People’s Republic of China.”

Kim heard the Chinese diplomat ushered in, but he kept his eyes focused on the report in front of him. Let the swine wait. Let the man stand, stewing in the shame that rightly belonged to his whole mongrel country.

The news from the front was good. The jaws of his trap had swung shut below Seoul, and Cho’s troops were pursuing the beaten imperialist armies as they fled south. Casualties were heavy, of course, but that had been expected. In any event, individual lives were of little importance in the greater scheme of things. No, the news was very good, and Kim almost smiled as he skimmed through the report.

But then he heard a delicate cough from the other side of his desk and his good humor vanished. Everything was going well, save on the international front. One cowardly act by the damned Chinese had unnecessarily embarrassed his Soviet allies and had made it somewhat more difficult for them to give him the aid he required. He kept reading.

At last he snapped the report binder shut with a single decisive motion. The crash it made seemed to hang in the still air of his silent office. Slowly Kim Jong-Il raised his head to stare at the diplomat waiting quietly in front of his desk.

He was disappointed. The Chinese showed no signs of fear or shame. Not even embarrassment or anger at the rude treatment he’d been accorded. Instead, the man stood calmly, his legs splayed apart as if he were some sort of peasant lounging at rest. Again Kim felt the anger rise up inside him. The insolent bastard. How dare this so-called ambassador stand there without showing the slightest sign of contrition for the treacherous actions of his nation.

“Well? What is your business with me? I’m busy, as I’m sure you can see.”

The ambassador inclined his head, more a nod than a bow. “I’m grateful for your time, Comrade Kim. My premier and Politburo have instructed me to deliver this.” The ambassador stepped forward suddenly, coming right up against the desk with something held out in his hand.

Kim half-reached for the panic buzzer by his knee and then stopped. It was a piece of paper, nothing more. He took it and ran his eyes over the major headings: Munitions, Armored Fighting Vehicles, Artillery. He pursed his lips. Why, this was a Chinese proposal to dramatically increase its logistical support of North Korea’s war effort.

“What is the meaning of this?” Kim demanded. “This directly contradicts your government’s refusal to support us in the Security Council.”

The Chinese ambassador shrugged almost imperceptibly. “I assure you that my country’s actions in the United Nations were not directed at your nation, Comrade Kim. We simply had no wish to be linked so closely with a Soviet indiscretion. Our support for your war of liberation is as strong as ever.”

“As weak as ever, you mean!” Kim could feel his temper slipping out of control, building toward a towering rage. He let it. “For your information, Mr. Ambassador, this Soviet ‘indiscretion’ you refer to is its willingness to side openly with us — instead of hiding in the shadows as your country has done!”

The ambassador was unruffled. “There were other considerations in — ”

“I’m sure there were,” Kim interrupted, all concern for self-control cast aside. “Considerations like the almighty Yankee dollar and your capitalist kowtowing to the Western bankers! You Chinese have finally sunk back to your old role as bootlickers for your imperialist masters.”

“Surely that is unfair, comrade. We’ve sent thousands of tons of valuable supplies across our common border, without the slightest discussion of any need for payment. And now” — the ambassador pointed to the paper lying on Kim’s desk — “we are fully prepared to increase even that already generous level of support.”

That was too much. Did these swine truly believe he could be bought like some common street whore? Kim grabbed the PRC’s weapons offer and crumpled it into a ball. “That is what I think of your pathetic attempt to bribe your way into my friendship!”

The man simply looked at him without any expression at all. “Shall I report to my government that our offer of additional assistance has been refused, comrade?”

The room turned red and Kim threw the wad of paper into the man’s face in a fury. “Yes! And report it in person. Your presence in the People’s Republic is no longer welcome. You are expelled!”

The ambassador nodded. “Very well, comrade. My government will undoubtedly submit another representative for your accreditation at the earliest possible moment.”

Kim struggled for control. The damned Chinese hadn’t even flinched when the paper struck him. He took a deep breath, held it, and let it out slowly. Then he said coldly, “Your government may do as it sees fit. And I may even consider its request — though I fear my calendar is somewhat full for the moment.”

He pressed the buzzer on his desk. “Send Captain Lew in.”

Lew wore no badges of rank, as befitted his status as an agent of the State Political Security Department. “Yes, Dear Leader?”

Kim didn’t waste words. “Escort the ambassador to his embassy and from there to the airport. Under no circumstances will you allow him to communicate with anyone save his own diplomatic staff. Do you understand me?”

Lew nodded sharply. The Chinese ambassador remained motionless, apparently uninterested in this extreme breach of protocol and common diplomatic courtesy.

“Good.” Kim’s lips thinned. “Now, get this man out of my sight.”

He dismissed the matter from his mind. He didn’t need the Chinese. The Soviets had far better weapons and had been far more willing to part with them. They had shown themselves worthy of his trust and his exploitation. He would rely on the Soviets — for the time being.

The Premier regarded the telexed report from the Pyongyang embassy with a wistful smile. Kim Jong-Il was so painfully predictable — not like his father at all. At least not as Kim Il-Sung had been at the height of his personal power. He shook his head slowly. The younger Kim was so intemperate, so arrogant.

A thought struck him. Perhaps the North Koreans really believed they could win this war without China’s assistance? It was possible. Their naïve self-confidence must certainly have been buoyed by their apparent victories so far. After all, the North’s armies drove deeper into the South with each passing day.

On the surface, then…

The Premier smiled more broadly. He’d known many apprentice engineers who’d looked only at the outside of a seemingly solid concrete dam without ever imagining the dangerous fissures that might be spreading throughout its interior. And Kim Il-Sung’s bloated son was more an apprentice than most.

Well, the apprentice had made his first clear error. The Premier carefully folded the telex and slipped it into his briefcase. Many of his colleagues on the Politburo would be deeply interested in its contents — deeply interested indeed.

He rose to his feet easily, heading for the morning’s scheduled Defense Council meeting. The dance was changing, spinning into new form, and the Premier wondered whether all its participants would be quick enough to learn its new steps.

Somehow he doubted it.