Red Phoenix

CHAPTER 39 High Tide

McLaren stood motionless for a moment, listening to the wind howling outside the command tent. His breath misted in the chill air before vanishing. It was so cold outside that not even the headquarters’ most powerful oil-fired heaters could do more than make things inside the tent barely livable. He snorted, reminding himself that conditions were infinitely worse for the fighting troops on the front lines. They existed in a kind of frozen hell, unable to stay warm unless they moved, and liable to be killed by enemy fire if they moved. He shook his head wearily. Christ, if either side in this war were really civilized they’d have long since called the fighting off on account of weather. With things as they were, both sides might even be taking more casualties from frostbite than from enemy action.

The Combined Forces J-3, Major General Barret Smith, moved up beside him, tamping tobacco into his pipe.

“How much longer, Barney?”

Smith lit a match and puffed his pipe into life. “The Met boys say this latest cold snap should lift by morning. Their satellites show another warm front moving through by then, and that could raise temperatures by up to forty degrees.”

“Still be below freezing, then?”

The dour-faced New Englander nodded.

“More snow expected?”

“Yes.”

McLaren frowned. Now that the UN forces had achieved almost complete air superiority, he begrudged every snowstorm. They limited his air support to the available all-weather attack squadrons — several of which had been worn down to uselessness by cumulative losses. He wanted clear skies so his fighter-bombers could hammer the NK columns from the air and see the SAMs reaching up for them from the ground. Every hour of limited visibility gave the North Koreans time to recover from previous aerial poundings, and McLaren didn’t want to give them a minute’s rest.

Smith interrupted his thoughts. “Staff’s ready for the briefing, Jack.”

“Coming.” He turned on his heel and strode back to the main table — now covered with charts showing the rugged hills around Ch’onan. McLaren’s eyes narrowed as he saw the markings of planned defensive positions scattered across the maps, but he stayed silent. Instead, he looked around the table at the shadowed faces of his senior staff. They looked tired, but not as exhausted as they had in the first days following North Korea’s surprise attack. War, like all other human occupations, had its own rhythms, and his officers were beginning to adjust to them. “Okay, gentlemen, let’s get down to it.”

Smith stepped further into the light. “Certainly, General.” He bent over the map table. “Now, as you can see, we’ve laid out a proposed — ”

“Hold it, Barney.” McLaren shook his head. “Let’s start at the top first. I want an overall brief before we get into the small-scale stuff.”

The J-3 took the pipe out of his mouth, surprised. But he recovered fast enough. “Of course, Jack, whatever you say. Colonel Logan?”

Logan took Smith’s place under the light and launched into a detailed evaluation of the military situation across the whole Korean peninsula. The J-2 spoke plainly, only occasionally referring to his notes when McLaren asked an unexpected question. Of all the headquarters staff, the colonel had been the most changed by the war. His old, lazy, “get along, go along” attitude toward the job had sloughed off — replaced by a hard-driving determination to get the facts, no matter what the cost in sleepless hours or even lives. It was as if Logan were burning himself up from within to make up for his failure to predict North Korea’s invasion.

The picture he painted was mixed.

First, Seoul had not been seriously attacked, despite being surrounded on all sides. Instead, the five second-line North Korean infantry divisions besieging the South Korean capital had contented themselves with heavy artillery bombardments directed at suspected UN defensive positions and with halfhearted thrusts aimed at the city’s water and power supplies. All had been repulsed. On the other hand, civilian casualties in Seoul were growing, and all attempts at air resupply had failed miserably. Even so, the South Korean garrison commander estimated he could hold out for several weeks under the present conditions. And the raids launched by his Special Forces units were tying down a large number of NK troops needed at the front.

Conditions were similar along the rugged eastern half of the DMZ. The ROK units there had thrown back every North Korean attack on their positions and saw no difficulty in holding their ground indefinitely. At the same time, their commanders saw little prospect of being able to go over onto the offensive. Neither side could hope to make significant gains in an area so crisscrossed by natural and man-made defenses.

The news in the air war was less ambiguous. After fourteen days of unpleasant surprises and heavy losses, the UN edge in equipment and air combat training was beginning to pay off. North Korea’s most modern fighter and ground-attack squadrons had been decimated, and its small force of surviving pilots and planes had been almost completely withdrawn from combat — pulled back to defend Pyongyang and the North’s other cities. Kim Jong-Il and his marshals clearly expected the Americans to repeat the devastating strategic bombing campaigns that had been so successful during the first Korean War. McLaren’s U.S. Air Force liaison officer smiled sourly at that. He’d just gotten off the phone with the USAF Chief of Staff. Growing tension with the Soviet Union had forced the President to cancel the planned transfer of an F-111 bomber wing from Europe. So there wouldn’t be any bombing of North Korean cities — not for the foreseeable future. This air war would be waged solely on the tactical level.

The war at sea was also being won. The carrier air wings operating off Constellation and Nimitz were back up to strength, and the Navy’s escort forces could now guarantee an uninterrupted flow of seaborne supplies into Pusan and Pohang. Confronted by superior technology, training, and numbers, North Korea’s navy had virtually ceased to exist as a viable fighting force.

All of which brought Logan to the most important theater of the war — the land battle along South Korea’s western coast. Everything else hinged on the outcome there. Victory against North Korea’s armored spearheads would ratify the UN Command’s hard-won successes in the air and at sea. Defeat would render them meaningless.

Logan’s verdict was short and painfully blunt. “That’s where we’re getting our ass kicked, General. The troops we’ve committed to this area are just plain fought out. They’ve been in action for two weeks now and they need help. Oh, sure, supplies are getting through for once, that doesn’t change the fact that our boys are outnumbered, outgunned, and out of luck.”

Several of his South Korean staff officers murmured at Logan’s lack of tact, but McLaren simply smiled. The colonel was absolutely right. He looked at Smith. “Recommendation, Barney?”

The tall New Englander came back to the map table. “Simply this, General. We’ve been surrendering eight to ten kilometers of ground every day, just to keep from being surrounded and crushed. That’s got to stop, and we” — he gestured at the assembled staff officers — ”believe this is the place to do it.” His pipe rested on the map showing the ridges and hills around Ch’onan.

“Oh?”

“Yes, sir. We’ve made the calculations and believe that, by using the divisions held out thus far as reserves, we could hold these positions indefinitely.” Smith’s hand traced the line of ridges. He stepped back a pace and stood waiting.

McLaren shook his head decisively. “No.”

Several officers moved forward in protest. “But General, if you’d just…”

“We could stop ’em cold on…”

“Sir, we’ve got to do someth…”

He held up a hand. “Gentlemen.” They shut up. “I’m not interested in just holding our ground. That’s how we got into this mess the first war around, back in ’52 and ’53. I don’t want a replay of that stalemate. I want victory.”

His eyes settled on a figure waiting quietly off to the side. “Doug, go ahead and start setting up my dog-and-pony show.”

As his aide moved forward to the table, McLaren continued, “Gentlemen, what I’m about to tell you must not go outside this tent. The maps Captain Hansen is laying out contain the bare-bones outlines of an operation I’ve code-named Thunderbolt. And if I hear any one of you so much a whisper that name anywhere but here, I’ll personally kick your ass. Is that clear?”

Heads nodded.

Hansen finished and stepped back, clearing the way for the others to study his handiwork. McLaren heard gasps from around the table.

He grinned. “I’m gonna start by telling you that the trouble isn’t that our troops have been giving up too much ground. The trouble is they’ve been giving up too little ground. Now, here’s what I mean by that…”

McLaren spoke for nearly half an hour, without notes and with complete conviction, stabbing the maps with an unlit cigar to emphasize particular points. While speaking, he kept his eyes fixed on the faces of all around him, ready to pounce on the faintest sign of doubt or disagreement. He knew that he had to win these men over. For security reasons he’d kept his staff largely in the dark while formulating Thunderbolt, but now he needed their wholehearted support to make the plan work. He’d have enough trouble selling the plan to the Joint Chiefs and the two presidents without worrying about dissension among his own subordinates.

He closed with a single admonition. “Taejon is the key, gentlemen. That’s where we’re going to make Uncle Kim’s bastards think they’ve hit a solid, brick wall.” He slapped a hand onto the map, all five fingers covering the outlines of the city of Taejon. “Right there. We’re going to hold the NKs by the nose, while we kick ’em in the ass.”

McLaren smiled at the chorus of approving growls that greeted his statement. They were with him, just as he’d hoped they would be. The urge to hit back, to counterpunch, had been growing with every kilometer they’d retreated. Even his South Korean officers seemed willing to gamble with more of their territory in return for the payoff Thunderbolt promised. “All right. Let’s break this up for now. You each know what needs to be done, so let’s get it done. Our next meeting is set for oh five hundred hours, tomorrow, and I want to see some preliminary logistics schedules, extra deception plans, and proposed assembly points by then. Any questions?”

Hansen caught his eye and pointed toward the satellite communications gear banked along one wall of the tent. McLaren nodded and looked back at his staff. “None? Good. Dismissed then, gentlemen. And I’ll see you all dark and early in the morning.”

Several men chuckled, but most simply saluted gravely and dispersed to their desks in the main tent or in the other command trailers.

McLaren turned to Hansen. “What’s up?”

“Washington’s on the horn, sir. The Chairman wants to speak with you, pronto. The NSC wants a full briefing from the Joint Chiefs on things over here at its next evening meeting. And the Chiefs want to include your views.”

For a second McLaren’s temper threatened to flare at the unwanted interruption. Then his irritation faded. Phil Simpson had actually been damn good about keeping the D.C. bureaucrats off his back. And so had the President. Both men had bent over backward to avoid trying to micromanage the war from ten thousand miles away. But it was about time that he let the good admiral and the Commander in Chief in on his plans. High time in fact.

He picked up the phone.

Colonel General Cho Hyun-Jae clambered down out of his camouflaged command trailer and smiled appreciatively up into the white, snowflake-filled sky. His II Corps commander stood waiting for him at the bottom of the steps. “Ah, Chyong. I see you’ve brought me a gift of good weather.”

Lieutenant General Chyong smiled back dutifully. His superior usually left all attempts at humor to him. And with good reason, he judged.

Abruptly Cho’s smile faded. “Walk with me, Chyong. What news from the front?”

“The news is good, sir. My spearheads advanced more than eleven kilometers yesterday, and they report even lighter opposition this morning. The enemy’s resistance on the ground seems to be crumbling.”

Cho stopped walking and eyed his subordinate closely. “Are they retreating in order or in panic?”

“Not in panic,” Chyong was forced to admit. “But they have been abandoning very strong natural defensive positions without putting up any real fight.” He paused and then went on, “Their behavior is hard to characterize. It is not really a fighting withdrawal, and yet they show no signs of collapsing morale.”

Cho shrugged. “Fortunately we are not being called upon to characterize the enemy’s behavior. The Dear Leader is content so long as our armies move forward.” He looked uneasy. “But I admit, I would feel more comfortable if I knew what this Yankee, McLaren” — he mangled the name — “had up his sleeve. There are disturbing intelligence reports of troops being held in reserve.”

“What about our air reconnaissance?”

Cho laughed and allowed a touch of bitterness to creep into his voice. “Our Air Force comrades have refused my latest request. Apparently their last camera-equipped MiG-21R was shot down over Pusan three days ago. Naturally they assure me that our Russian friends will soon deliver more modern reconnaissance aircraft. Supposedly they will then be in a position to consider the Army’s needs.”

He shook his head. “So, Chyong, we are forced to rely on the Research Department and its spies for any information from Pusan. And who knows if any of them have managed to avoid the puppet government’s counterspies?”

The two men walked on for several minutes in silence, circling the carefully hidden headquarters complex under a steady rain of softly falling flakes. Artillery thundered momentarily, somewhere off to the south. At last Cho turned back toward his command trailer. He stopped at the foot of its snow-covered steps and straightened his back. “Is there anything I can get for you, Chyong? Or for your men?”

Chyong studied his commander carefully. “My staff is drawing up a formal series of requests for your consideration, sir.”

“Spare me the paperwork, Chyong. Just give me the gist for now. Let the bureaucrats worry about the details later.”

The lieutenant general bobbed his head in gratitude. He’d always appreciated Cho’s prejudice for action. It matched his own temperament. “Very well, then. Most important of all, I need more supplies delivered more consistently. At the moment my infantry battalions and tank crews are subsisting on captured enemy stores, and my artillery units have less than a day’s worth of ready ammunition available.”

Cho frowned. He hadn’t known that things were as bad as that. Some supply problems had been foreseen during the planning for Red Phoenix. In fact, they’d been judged to be inevitable given the enemy’s anticipated destruction of bridges, roads, and rail lines. But prewar staff assessments had all assumed that the difficulties could be overcome by a rapid, unrelenting advance and by the careful management of resources.

The First Shock Army’s commander almost smiled. He should have known better than to rely on estimates rather than on reality. His logistics staffers must have been shading the truth to conceal their own failures. If Chyong’s figures were accurate, the enemy’s air strikes were slowly strangling the ability of the People’s Army to continue its offensive. And going on the defensive to build up new forward stockpiles of food, ammunition, and spare parts was unthinkable. Losing the initiative would mean losing the war.

Fortunately there was a solution. One that had worked well during the North’s first try to liberate the South. It was cumbersome, yes, and overly manpower-intensive. But it would work.

He looked at Chyong, still waiting motionless as snow coated the stars on his shoulder tabs. “You were quite correct to bring this situation to my attention, comrade. I’ll take immediate steps to get you the supplies you need.”

Seeing the other man’s raised eyebrow, Cho explained. “From now on, supplies will move only by night or on days like this. And the convoys will avoid routes the enemy has already targeted. We’ll build new bridges and use porters through otherwise impassable terrain if need be. Finally, I shall see to it that our air defenses are strengthened.”

Chyong nodded his understanding. Such measures had enabled the Chinese to supply large armies in the South from 1951 to 1953, despite the overwhelming air superiority enjoyed by the imperialists. As a young officer he’d studied the system thoroughly and come away impressed both by its effectiveness and its extravagant use of raw manpower. And that last element raised a question that needed to be asked.

Cho seemed to read his mind. “You want to know where all the men for this will come from? Not from your command, I assure you. The high command has placed two more rifle divisions — the Twelfth and the Thirty-first — under my authority. We’ll use them as human pack animals instead of combat soldiers. Better that they should serve the Liberation with their backs than add to our other burdens, eh?”

Chyong’s eyes showed his amusement and agreement.

Cho didn’t allow himself to feel any trace of doubt about his decision until after his subordinate was gone. He’d planned to use the two new divisions to strengthen his advancing army’s flanks. Was it wise to sacrifice the additional security they could have provided? He stood uncertainly in the doorway to his trailer, torn by indecision. Perhaps he should cancel those plans and simply rely on improving the army’s existing supply systems.

Then reason returned. There would be no extra security involved in placing additional troops on the line if he couldn’t supply them. He needed combat power, not useless mouths. Cho turned his back on the gloomy skies and entered his trailer. The morning’s first briefing was already long overdue.

The dull, coughing sound of twin explosions rolled across the flatlands and echoed off the steep, rocky hill above the highway.

“Good shooting, Private Park!” Kevin laid an approving hand on the shoulder of the South Korean reservist manning 3rd Platoon’s Dragon launcher.

The man smiled shyly and bowed his head in thanks at the compliment.

A thousand meters away, two North Korean T-62 tanks burned in fiery testimony to Park’s skill. His missile had slammed squarely into one and exploded, catching the second T-62 inside the resulting fireball. On either side of the dead tanks, other enemy vehicles hastily dispersed, some behind the dense white puffs thrown by onboard smoke dischargers. APCs disgorged their infantry, who promptly sought cover in roadside ditches.

Kevin studied the apparent confusion in satisfaction. His ambush, as expected, had forced the North Koreans to deploy for battle — a maneuver that wasted precious time and fuel. He watched for a couple of minutes more, making sure, and then let the binoculars fall back onto his chest. It was time to head out.

“Lieutenant Rhee!” Rhee’s head popped up from beside a boulder. “Move your people back to the next position. We’ve done enough here.”

The Korean nodded and started bellowing orders. Kevin stood aside as the files of white-camouflaged soldiers began slipping past him, down the slope toward the valley spreading out below this last hill. He glanced toward the road. Were the North Koreans reacting any faster this time?

Nope, the NK column was still trying to shake itself out into attack order. From the look of things, it would be at least another ten minutes before they could advance against what they assumed was an enemy-held hill. Kevin would have liked to have met their expectations. The terrain was perfect, too steep for tanks and with too little cover for attacking infantry. Even a small number of defenders wouldn’t have had much trouble bloodying a much larger assaulting force.

He sighed. Orders were orders.

Even when they didn’t make any sense.

For the last seven days, they’d been retreating virtually nonstop — halting just long enough to delay the North Koreans, inflict a few casualties, and then hustle on. At first he and his men hadn’t minded. They took fewer casualties of their own in that kind of running fight. But as the retreat went on and on, they’d started to question the sanity of the higher-ups. The UN forces had been abandoning defensive positions that could have been held. Why? And where were the reinforcements promised from the States and from South Korea’s enormous pool of trained reserves?

This latest withdrawal made even less sense than all the others. Once past this range of rugged hills, the North Korean spearheads would again enter flat, open ground — ground perfect for tanks and other armored vehicles. And the next really defensible position lay along the Paekma River, thirty kilometers south and just a few kilometers north of the city of Taejon. Christ, how far did the generals plan to let the NKs go before they did something?

Kevin rubbed a weary hand over his face, glad that the weather had warmed up enough to let him dispense with the makeshift scarf he’d had to wear over his mouth and nose when the last Siberian cold front had roared through — plunging temperatures well below zero. One of his men had frozen to death on guard duty that last hellish night. What was his name? Costello. Try as he might, he couldn’t remember the man’s face. But he’d never forget that pathetic corpse, huddled stiff and blue at the bottom of a one-man foxhole. Not in a million years.

He followed his men down the hill.

The long convoys of green-painted trucks filled every southbound lane, moving at high speed past groups of refugees forced to the side of the road. Each had its canvas covers tightly closed, for protection against both the weather and prying eyes, but several still bore markings that identified them as belonging to the U.S. 3rd Marine Division.

One of the refugees, a wizened, old farmer, shrugged his pack onto the pavement and stood straight as the trucks roared by. As a young man he had served beside the Marines in the battle for the Pusan perimeter. Mustering the English he’d picked up then, he called out, “Hey, Mac! Where’re you heading?”

A youthful Marine corporal stuck his head out the window of one of the passing trucks and yelled back, “To kick some communist ass!”

Cheers followed the trucks on their way down the road toward Pusan.

Shin Dal-Kon was a realistic man. And as a realistic man, he understood that the odds were greatly against his living to see another day. But Shin was also a dedicated man, and he had a duty to perform. A duty that would surely kill him.

He moistened his lips and stared out again through the window, counting ships and vehicles. Shin’s small gift shop was perfectly placed, within easy walking distance of the Pusan railway station and less than five hundred meters from the harbor’s main docks. During the summer months the store was usually clogged with foreign visitors buying trinkets or postcards — a condition that made other, less ordinary exchanges ludicrously easy.

In fact, his masters in Pyongyang now considered Shin Dal-Kon their top agent in Pusan. Or so they’d always told him, he thought wryly. Certainly he was one of the longest-lived. The short, bald, ordinary-looking man had served the North continuously since 1963.

But now that service was about to come to a sudden end. And all because of Pyongyang’s desperate need for information about what the Americans were up to. His control’s last signal had ordered him to report any significant findings by radio — and without delay.

He wondered, did the desk-sitters up North know they’d ordered his death in the same signal? Shin had survived for more than twenty-five years for a single, good reason — he was always careful. No dispatch ever followed the same route or ever went through fewer than three cut-outs before it started north. And Shin had never, never used any of the radios which he’d been issued. South Korea’s radio-direction-finding units were too skilled to toy with. They could pinpoint an illicit radio transmitter in minutes. That was a lesson Shin had learned secondhand and never forgotten. But now he had to ignore it.

Despite tight security, the American effort was too obvious to be missed. Seemingly endless convoys of trucks crowding the dockyard’s roads; warships moored offshore while transports anchored alongside massive cargo cranes; stern-faced security detachments on every street corner, and perhaps most significantly, the complete disappearance of the rowdy American sailors who’d once thronged Pusan’s bars and brothels. They all spelled one thing to the North Korean agent: amphibious invasion. Soon the American armada would depart, and Pyongyang had to be ready for its reappearance at some point along the coast.

And so Shin had to sound the warning. And so Shin would die, as soon as South Korea’s security forces broke down his shop’s door.

He put down the notepad containing his coded signal and went down the stairs and out into his small garden. Carefully he levered frozen soil away at one corner of the garden, knelt, and gingerly lifted a heavy earthenware pot of the kind used to ferment kimchee. Shin hefted the pot and brought it back inside before lifting its top to reveal the ultramodern shortwave radio concealed inside.

Working quickly, partly from fear and partly from an impatient desire to see the thing done, he raised the whip-thin aerial, made sure the frequency setting was correct, and began transmitting.

The traffic-battered minivan looked like any of the thousands of similar vehicles scattered across South Korea’s city streets. But instead of dried fish, cooking oil, or sacks of rice, it contained an array of highly sophisticated radio listening devices.

The senior duty agent for the National Security Planning Agency’s Pusan Station leaned over the operator’s shoulder. “Anything yet?”

The man nodded abruptly as faint beeps emerged from his equipment. “Yes, he’s just started transmitting.”

The agent smiled and keyed his own transmitter. “All units report in and stand by for my signal.”

Acknowledgments flooded through his headphones. Satisfied, the NSP agent moved back to the other man. “Well?”

“He’s still transmitting, sir. This one is either very slow or very unpracticed.”

“The latter, I believe,” the NSP man said. “This man is no ordinary spy. He’s a big fish, and like all big fish he’s swum in the depths for years. I suspect he’s not happy at being this close to the surface.” He stopped, conscious of having been too talkative.

But the equipment operator hadn’t even really been listening. “He’s stopped!”

“You’re certain?”

An emphatic nod.

The NSP agent keyed his transmitter again. “Take him.”

The Special Forces captain finished attaching the short-fused plastic explosive, triggered it, and ducked back as the gift shop’s front door blew in. Two men in gas masks and carrying submachine guns rolled in through the opening, right behind the explosion. Others waited outside, covering every other possible exit.

Seconds passed. Then the captain heard a stun grenade go off and followed his men in. A stretcher team came close behind.

Rapid impressions filtered through his mind as he took the stairs to the second floor two at a time. Swirling smoke. Scorched wall hangings. And then a small room crowded with his troopers, a radio, and a body.

The captain lifted his gas mask and caught the faint whiff of almond still lingering in the air. “Report.”

“He’s dead, sir. Took a cyanide capsule before we tossed the stunner in.”

Undoubtedly true. These men were very competent. And completely trustworthy. “Never mind. We’ve got what we wanted.”

The heaters in the underground command bunker worked far too well, unlike most products of the North Korean workers’ state. And so Kim Jong-Il and the other Military Commission members sweltered in summerlike heat while above them Pyongyang’s streets lay buried under several feet of snow and ice. The sweat streaming down his face did not improve Kim’s temper.

“So, Colonel General Cho reports that his troops have crossed the Paekma River in no fewer than three places. Surely that is good news enough for you.”

“Indeed it is, Dear Leader. But…”

Kim frowned. He’d long suspected the speaker, the secretary of communications, of being a covert member of the party’s Chinese faction. He’d never been able to prove it, though. Not to his father’s satisfaction. Well, the old man was faltering. It wouldn’t be long before all the reins of power were firmly gathered in his hands. “But what? Come, come, Comrade Secretary, don’t be coy with us. What troubles you now?”

“Cho also reports that he has taken heavy casualties from imperialist air strikes, and that his supply lines are stretched to the limit. I question his ability to continue the advance until air superiority can be regained — ”

“That would be extraordinarily foolish!” Kim snapped. “Obviously, as a civilian, you cannot be expected to remember the vital role momentum plays in achieving victory, but I have not forgotten it.” He watched the communications secretary flush at the unjustified gibe. As a teenager the man had fought in the first Fatherland Liberation War — winning several medals for his heroic devotion to duty.

“In any event,” Kim continued, “I have directed our ambassador in Moscow to press our Russian friends for additional combat aircraft and pilots. With them in hand we shall sweep the skies clear of imperialist aircraft.”

Several of the old men around the table looked openly skeptical, and Kim made a mental note to have each of them watched more carefully.

An aide entered and bent low to whisper something in the ear of the Research Department’s director. The director signaled for Kim’s attention. “Dear Leader, I have urgent news from our agent in Pusan. His findings confirm preliminary conclusions our best analysts had already drawn from Soviet satellite photographs. The Americans are preparing an amphibious force for a descent somewhere along our coast. They have assembled enough ships to carry at least thirty-five thousand men.”

Murmurs swept around the table. Many present remembered the catastrophe of Inchon and the subsequent UN drive deep into North Korea. They wanted no repetition of that nightmare.

Kim Jong-Il sat and glared. The panicky old fools! They wavered and fretted at the first sign of difficulty. He turned to the admiral in charge of the Naval Command. “There should be no difficulty in any of this. Assemble your submarines and ambush the Yankees as they steam north. We’ll send their bandit Marines to a watery grave!”

A sudden silence greeted his words, broken at last only by the half-whispered words of the admiral. “I have no submarines left to send, Dear Leader. All the ones in the northern Yellow Sea have been sunk.”

Sunk? Every one of them? Kim grasped for words. “Why wasn’t I informed of this? Why didn’t you report it?”

“I have, Dear Leader.” The older man’s face was unreadable. “My reports on the current naval situation have been delivered to your headquarters daily.”

And probably held there by some underling fearful of his wrath, Kim knew. For the first time in months he felt unsure of his course. Events could be slipping out of his hands and that could be fatal. Most of these men bore him little love. With an effort he regained his composure. “I see. The road we must take is clear. We must acquire the naval forces we need from the Russians. They, at least, have plenty of submarines to spare.”

The oldest man at the table, a wizened old survivor of the guerrilla war against the Japanese, coughed delicately into a fragile, blue-veined hand. “First aircraft, and now ships as well. What will the Soviets demand of us in return for all these things? Do we risk handing over our Revolution and sovereignty for these pretty toys?”

“These ‘toys,’ Comrade Choi, are necessary to win this war.” Kim controlled his temper, though with great difficulty. Choi was close to his father. “And once we have won this war, we shall rule Korea. Not the Russians. Not the Chinese. Only the Party and its Great Leader!”

No one debated his assertion, but Kim sensed their continued fear and indecision. He closed his folder abruptly. Very well, then. Enough was enough. They wouldn’t accomplish any more this day. “This meeting is adjourned, comrades. We will reconvene tomorrow to review the measures necessary to deal with this seaborne enemy threat.”

He left the room without waiting for their reaction. There were urgent signals to be sent to Moscow.

The two men sat close together in the vastness of the high-ceilinged office. Oil paintings depicting various triumphs of Russian arms — Borodino, Stalingrad, Kursk, and others — covered the walls in martial splendor. Thick curtains blocked any view of Moscow’s empty nighttime streets.

An opened bottle of vodka and a half-eaten loaf of black bread sat on a silver tray next to the two men. Both liked to pretend that they were of simple peasant stock. In reality, both had risen to rank through the intertwined workings of favoritism and seniority, carried higher and higher within the Party — the Soviet Union’s version of the Czarist aristocracy.

“Then we are in agreement, comrade?” the minister of defense asked.

The head of the KGB locked his gaze on the other man. “Indeed, my friend, Kim Jong-Il’s requests must be met. The war is too evenly balanced for any other decision.”

“But the Politburo will vacillate. It may take days to make our ‘colleagues’ see reason on this matter. And such a delay could be fatal to our cause.”

The defense minister’s assertion hung unchallenged in the air. At last the KGB director nodded his agreement.

The minister smiled and directed his colleague’s attention to a single sheet of paper resting on the low table between them. “I am glad you see the need for swift action, Viktor Ivanovitch. I have prepared an order that should satisfy the most urgent of friend Kim’s needs. Read it.”

The other man did so and sat back in his chair, a faintly troubled look on his face. “You’re quite sure, comrade, that this order can be kept, ah, confidential?”

The defense minister laced his fingers across his stomach and nodded solemnly. “Without a doubt.” He reached across the table and tapped the piece of paper. “Should matters go awry, this can be denied. Whatever happens can be explained away as a tragic accident of positioning.”

“And the planes?”

“Unfortunately, we cannot hope to handle that so… discreetly. The movement of whole squadrons of our finest combat aircraft will be a much more, ah, public, matter. No, I fear the decision will have to be left in the full Politburo’s hands.”

“And this?” The KGB director’s beefy forefinger touched the sheet of paper.

“It will be transmitted to Fleet Headquarters in Vladivostok within the hour.”

Each man raised his glass to the other and then downed it with a single gulp.

Only the slide projector’s whirring fan cut through the silence. The two photographs shown side by side were remarkably sharp and full of detail, especially when one remembered that they had been taken by a satellite more than two hundred miles above the earth and moving at more than seventeen thousand miles an hour.

“All right, Blake. What’s your interpretation of these pictures?” The President’s voice sounded loud in the darkness. “Hell, I’ll admit that they just look like a couple of trains to me.”

Blake Fowler shook his head and then remembered that nobody could see the gesture. “Not a couple of trains, Mr. President. One train.”

“Explain.”

“The first slide, the one on the left, shows a loaded Chinese munitions train sitting in the railyards at Pyongyang. And the second slide, the one on the right shows that same train, still fully loaded, heading back across the border into Manchuria.”

“So what?” Putnam didn’t bother trying to hide the contempt in his voice. Blake’s growing intimacy with the President had rubbed his ego raw. “One lousy train goes back to China. Why bother showing us that?”

“Because, sir, that train crossed the border seven days ago. And we haven’t spotted a single shipment of Chinese arms or ammunition in North Korea since. My analysts and I believe that what we are seeing is a de facto withdrawal of the PRC’s covert support for the North Korean invasion.” Blake drew a breath. “And we believe that could offer us a chance to dramatically shift the balance of forces against the North Koreans.” He stopped.

The President’s voice showed more interest. “Go on, Blake.”

“If the Chinese have stopped their support, there must have been a falling out between them and the North Koreans, maybe temporary, maybe permanent. If the Chinese don’t regard Kim as their friend anymore, we may be able to move in.”

“What’ve you got in mind?”

“An overture to the Chinese, sir. An appeal for their aid in bringing this war to a close on acceptable terms.”

Putnam snorted derisively. “Jesus Christ, Fowler! You expect us to go begging hat in hand to the PRC? And then you expect them to just see the light and join the side of the angels?”

Blake felt himself flushing with anger. “No, I don’t. But I do expect the Chinese government to act in what it perceives as its own best interest. And I believe that we can convince them that lies in our corner.”

“How?”

“By offering them a free-trade agreement, loans, credits, and the kind of defensive military technologies they need — sophisticated surface-to-air missiles and antitank guided missiles.”

Several of the men and women in the darkened Situation Room tried to speak at the same time, but the President’s voice overrode the others. “Have you approached the South Koreans about this proposal?”

“Only at the staff level, Mr. President. Nothing higher than that.”

“I see.” Blake could see the outline of the President’s face in the ghostly glow given off by the slide projector, but he couldn’t read the Chief Executive’s expression. “What about the timing on this thing? We can’t go to Beijing while we’re still losing. George is right on that. It would look like we’re begging.”

“Agreed, sir. That’s why we’re suggesting that State, Treasury, Commerce, and Defense all develop the specifics necessary while we await results from Thunderbolt. If General McLaren’s plan succeeds, we’ve got the base we need to approach the Chinese.”

The President nodded and shifted slightly in his seat, turning to face the secretary of state. “Okay, Paul. What’s your reading on Blake’s idea? Go or no go?”

Bannerman looked carefully from one man to the other, ignoring Putnam’s insistent tug on his sleeve. He’d seen the signs of the shifting power base in the White House long ago. The secretary of state cleared his throat and spoke. “I fully concur with Dr. Fowler’s plan, Mr. President. I think it offers the best chance we’re going to get to keep this war from escalating beyond our control.”

The President nodded abruptly. “Okay, then. Blake, put your proposal in writing and have it on my desk by tomorrow morning. Then we can kick it around a little while we wait to see whether or not this Thunderbolt works.” He looked at his watch. “Now, you’ll have to forgive me, ladies and gentlemen, but I’ve go to run. Got a photo opportunity with the Boy Scout of the Year to take care of.” He paused, a cynical grin twisted on his face. “As you know, the business of government never ends.”

The NSC Crisis Team rose with him and remained standing while he left the room.

Kevin coughed and felt the thick, acrid smoke eddying through the room burn deep into his lungs. He rubbed his watering eyes and cursed softly. There wasn’t anywhere you could go to escape the smoke — not when the whole damned city was on fire. He scuttled over to where Montoya squatted, keeping low to avoid showing himself through the sandbagged window.

“India One Two, this is Echo Five Six, India One Two, this is Echo Five Six. Over.” The RTO took his finger off the transmit button and shrugged helplessly. “Nothing. I can’t get nothing, L-T Probably too many buildings in the way.”

Kevin nodded his understanding. Snarled communications were the rule when fighting in a city. Or so the manual said. The low-powered FM tactical sets issued for battalion, company, and platoon use needed good lines of sight to work, and good lines of sight were impossible to come by in Taejon’s concrete jungle of apartment complexes, department stores, and other high-rise buildings.

He spread the tourist map of the city he’d picked up at Battalion HQ only hours before and started reviewing his company’s defensive positions. He had minutes at most to make sure there wasn’t anything he’d overlooked — some fatal weakness that the North Koreans could exploit. The last word from Major Donaldson had been that the South Korean Reserve units holding on Taejon’s outskirts had been overrun. The NKs were on their way and could be expected at any moment. Kevin concentrated on the symbols sketched on the map.

Echo Company held a cluster of buildings on the southern side of Chungang-ro — Chungang Street — Taejon’s main east-west boulevard. Corporal McIntyre and 1st Platoon anchored the company’s right flank from a three-story apartment building with a view north along Inhyo Street. Kevin had put his CP there since it offered the best view. The three half-strength squads of Sergeant Geary’s 2nd Platoon were stationed in small shops along the center of the position. And Rhee’s 3rd Platoon, the KATUSAs, occupied buildings looking northwest — out over an open plaza built across the frozen Taejonchon River. Kevin frowned. He’d hoped to occupy the Chungang Department Store, right across the street from Rhee’s position, but he hadn’t had enough troops. Now it stood empty, available as a fire base for the first North Korean infantry to come along. In the limited time available, his men had only been able to liberally scatter a selection of explosive booby traps throughout the department store. That would slow the NKs, but it sure wouldn’t stop them.

Two of the battalion’s remaining companies were also on the line. Matuchek’s Alpha Company held the left flank, dug in from the river to past some place called the Dabinchi Night Club. Bravo Company held the right, in a position centered on the Taejon Railway Station. The other provisional unit, Foxtrot Company, was stationed to the rear as the battalion reserve and quick-reaction force.

Other infantry battalions stretched to either side across the city — a grab bag of assorted American and South Korean units, all worn down by weeks of near-continuous fighting. Kevin shook his head wearily. The scattergun briefing he’d gotten before moving Echo up to the line had shown the better part of three North Korean divisions moving toward Taejon — two infantry and one tank. So they’d be outnumbered by at least four or five to one. He wasn’t sure they could hold against those kind of odds, no matter how many times the rear-area brass said that Taejon would never be surrendered. Slogans like “They shall not pass” might sound inspiring to civilian ears, but the front-line combat soldier knew who paid the price for such fine phrases.

“Hey, L-T,” Montoya whispered, “OP Seven reports NK tanks and infantry moving down the street. Company strength.” He paused, listening, and then went on. “Six has movement, too. Another NK company at least. They wanna know what they should do.”

Kevin moved toward the window. “Tell ’em both to hang tight and stay out of sight.” He rose slowly to his knees, bringing his eyes just above the windowsill. “Contact the platoons and make sure they know not to fire until I give the word, understood?”

“Gotcha, L-T” Montoya started whispering softly into his handset, relaying his instructions.

Kevin stared out the window, watching for the oncoming North Korean columns. He heard them first. A low, persistent rumbling that expanded suddenly into squealing tank treads, the roar of diesel engines, and the tramp of marching feet. Shapes appeared at the edge of his vision.

Captain Kang Chae-Jin swore as he slipped on a patch of ice left unmelted in the road. He recovered and kept moving, angling slightly to stay right behind the third of the three T-55 tanks assigned to his company.

He looked up at the buildings rising to either side and frowned. Urban fighting doctrine said that tank platoons should advance in a triangular formation, with one tank moving down the middle of the street, while the other two stayed behind and to the flanks, covering the leader. But doctrine didn’t say what to do when the street was too narrow for such a formation, so Kang had been forced to adopt an untested compromise. One of his three infantry platoons led the way, assault rifles held at the ready. They were followed by the three T-55s, trundling along in column, and then by the Assault Group’s two remaining infantry platoons.

“Comrade Captain?” Lieutenant Sohn, the commander of his 1st Platoon, had dropped back from the lead column.

“Yes?”

Sohn tilted his helmet back a bit and pointed forward. “We’re coming to a major cross-street. What are your ord — ”

The lieutenant’s question was drowned out by a sudden, echoing crash of small-arms fire, grenades, and tank cannon from off to the left.

Kang threw himself face forward onto the pavement and screamed, “Take cover!”

“Goddamnit!” Kevin slammed a fist into the wall beside the window as he watched North Korean foot soldiers scatter out of the street into houses and buildings. In another thirty seconds his men would have been able to catch the NKs in the open and slaughter them. But other enemy units had run head-on into Bravo Company first — spoiling what would have been a letter-perfect ambush.

“L-T, Rhee says he’s got people moving into the department store across from him. He wants permission to fire.”

“Granted. But Third Platoon only.”

Montoya repeated that into his handset and machine guns chattered off to the right as Rhee’s men opened up. The sound of more shooting rose from beyond the river, near Alpha Company’s positions. Maybe. He was starting to lose track of sounds as they bounced around in Taejon’s streets and as the discordant mix of artillery, small-arms, and support weapons reached mind-numbing proportions.

He risked another glance out the window and then ducked back. The North Korean footsloggers he’d seen had gone to ground in buildings or sheltered doorways, but their three tanks still sat arrogantly in the middle of a north-south street intersecting Chungang-ro, turrets whining as they swiveled back and forth, searching for targets. Those three tanks had to go. His troops could handle NK infantry, but those T-55s could use point-black fire to smash every defensive position he had. So they had to be destroyed. But how?

Kevin mentally estimated ranges. The NK tanks were within sixty to a hundred meters. Too close for Dragon missiles — they needed to fly at least twice that distance before they could really be guided. But the LAWs carried by his men were a different story. LAWs were ordinarily useless against heavily armored main battle tanks. When fired from an upper-story window or roof, though, they could easily penetrate a tank’s thin top armor.

He got to his feet and ran up the apartment building’s central staircase to the third floor.

Several men in the 1st Platoon were equipped with LAWs, and every one of them professed an eagerness to be the first to “bag” his own tank. Kevin picked three of them and deployed them in separate rooms — one to a window.

He took a deep breath and then yelled, “Now! Now! Now! Fire ’em up!”

The 1st Platoon’s machine gun teams and riflemen cut loose with a wild, clattering roar, sweeping the windows and doorways of the buildings across the street, trying to suppress any North Koreans who’d already gotten into position to fire back. At the same moment the three soldiers carrying LAWs stood up, aimed, and fired.

Two of the three rockets found their targets. One hit the lead T-55 squarely atop its turret, tore through, and exploded inside the crew compartment. The other pierced the second T-55’s fuel tank and turned it into a flaming wreck. The third LAW missed. Fired high, it clipped the T-55’s radio antenna and slammed into a doorway, mangling two North Korean infantrymen crouching there.

The surviving tank’s main gun fired back, and Kevin caught a split-second glimpse of an eerie orange sunburst emerging from the flames enveloping the second T-55.

CRACK. KARUMMPP! He felt the building rock back as the shell hit and exploded. Bricks cascaded out into the street, dust choked the air, and agonized screams drifted up from below.

Kevin grabbed the nearest soldier with another LAW and pulled him over to the window. “Get that son of a bitch before he shoots again!”

The man braced and aimed, but he didn’t fire. “It’s gone, L-T. It beat feet!”

Kevin looked for himself. The T-55 wasn’t where it had been. Oily, black smoke pouring out of the two dead tanks made it difficult to see, but he could hear treads squealing on the pavement. They were growing fainter.

Huddled in a bullet-pocked doorway, Lieutenant Sohn stared in shock at the thin wash of blood-red flesh and crushed bone that had been his company commander. The retreating T-55 had backed right over Kang without even pausing, and Sohn could still hear the captain’s last faint, gurgling scream as he’d gone under the tank tread.

He retched, then winced as another stream of American bullets stitched across the edge of the doorway, spraying tiny slivers of concrete into his cheek. The sudden, stinging pain helped clear his brain and reminded him of one of war’s cardinal lessons: First you survive. You can mourn the dead later.

The lieutenant pushed himself farther back into cover and deliberately looked away from what was left of Kang. He was in command now, and it was up to him to bring some order out of the mess he could hear and see around him.

Some of his men had gotten into buildings facing the American positions and were firing back. But others were acting as uselessly as he was himself — pinned down behind the first available cover. That would have to be changed, and quickly. Sohn wiped the vomit off his chin and ignored the blood dripping from his cheek. Then he rose and dashed forward into the smoke to rally his troops.

Rhee’s voice was calm and came across the static-laden radio channel clearly. “We’re taking heavy fire now from the department store and from houses across the street.”

Kevin closed his eyes involuntarily as another flare burst high overhead. Its harsh, white light threw strange shadows racing across shattered buildings and rubble-strewn streets. Rifle and machine gun fire crackled nearby.

“Casualties?”

“Very heavy.” There was a muffled, crashing sound, and Rhee stopped talking momentarily. When he came back on, Kevin could hear moaning in the background. “They’re using RPGs against our firing slits. These communists are not being very sportsmanlike.”

“Can you hold?”

Rhee sounded confident. “As long as we have ammunition. It would help, though, if we could get an artillery mission against the department store.”

Kevin sighed and pressed the transmit button. “I’ve tried, Rhee, but Battalion says no way. There’re too many civies still left in the city.” The rules of engagement were firm. American artillery would not be used where friendly civilians were at risk.

“My countrymen would understand. This is total war. We must use every weapon.”

“Drop it, Rhee!” Kevin snapped. “It’s not your decision. It’s not my decision. And there isn’t anything either one of us can do about it. Got it?” He instantly regretted the anger he’d shown. The South Korean lieutenant was only trying to do his best to protect his men.

“Message understood.” Rhee signed off, apparently unruffled by his outburst, and Kevin was thankful for that. He had more than enough on his hands without unnecessarily pissing off his best platoon leader.

The wind shifted slightly to the west and Kevin gagged at the smell it carried — a searing mix of charred wood, charred human flesh, and jellied gasoline. The North Koreans had used a flamethrower in a last daylight attack on his 2nd Platoon’s positions. Their wild-eyed charge had been crushed, but not before the burning fuel sprayed by the flamethrower set a whole city block afire. The 2nd Platoon had been forced to flee the flames, retreating to fallback positions in the houses behind Chungang-ro. Several men were still missing, and Kevin hoped with all his heart that they’d been shot to death and not trapped inside the fires.

The flare overhead guttered out and another burst immediately to take its place. Moving slowly in the dangerous light, he handed the radio back to Montoya and followed the RTO downstairs to the CP they’d set up in a windowless, one-room apartment. The previous tenant’s delicate silk wall hangings were gone, replaced by hand-drawn maps of the surrounding area showing kill zones and blind spots. Crumpled ration bags and stacked ammo boxes littered the room’s polished hardwood floor. Rust-brown stains marked where a wounded man had died before the medics could get to him.

Kevin shuffled through the debris and unslung his M16. He laid the rifle carefully against the wall and stretched, feeling knotted muscles unwind ever so slightly. It felt so good that, for a moment, he stood motionless that way, with his arms spread wide and his back arched. His eyes closed and he felt the room melting away.…

“You okay, L-T?”

His eyes snapped open and he saw Montoya standing close to him, a worried look on his face. Christ, he’d heard of people falling asleep on their feet, but he’d never expected to be one of them. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little tired, that’s all.”

The RTO guided him over to a thin mattress and helped him sit down. “Hell, L-T. Why don’t you take a rest? Nothing major’s going down right now.”

Kevin resisted the thought. “Can’t. Rhee’s men are in a firefight, and — ”

“Shit!” Montoya sounded disgusted. “Everybody’s been in a frigging firefight all day long. Come on, L-T, you’ve gotta sleep sometime.”

Kevin knew that was true as he leaned back against the wall. Fatigue was turning him into a stumbling, shambling, fuzzy-thinking robot. Into exactly the kind of leader who could make too many mistakes and get his men killed wholesale instead of retail. He kept his eyes open for a moment longer and looked at Montoya. “Okay, I’ll take a short nap. But get a radio watch set up and make sure everybody knows to wake me if anything big happens. All right?”

The RTO nodded happily and went away.

Kevin let his eyes close again and tried to let his mind drift away from images of the bloody day. Echo had been engaged at some point along its line throughout the day and now for most of the night. Counting the flamethrower attack, they’d repulsed at least five full-scale NK attacks and God only knew how many smaller probes. The streets showed the results. They were heaped with North Korean bodies and shattered masonry. And the company’s own losses had been equally appalling. He had scarcely sixty men left standing of the ninety or so he’d started the battle with.

The rest of the battalion wasn’t in much better shape. Bravo Company was still hanging on to what was left of the railway station by its fingernails — pummeled by North Korean mortar barrages that had killed Bravo’s CO and two of its three platoon leaders. On the other side of the Taejonchon River, Alpha had been pushed back about a hundred meters or so by a series of fanatical human-wave attacks, but it still held the burned-out remains of the Dabinchi Night Club. Casualties both there and at the station had been so heavy that Major Donaldson had been forced to feed two of Foxtrot’s platoons into the line as reinforcements — leaving the battalion with a single, understrength platoon as its sole reserve.

Not a very good situation, however you looked at it, Kevin thought. Still, they’d inflicted tremendous losses on the NKs. Maybe they’d fought them to a standstill. There’d certainly been no serious effort lately to pry his company out of its buildings and cellars. Maybe the NKs were just as worn out as he was.

He fell asleep on that thought.

Sohn’s hand brushed a still-smoldering ember and he bit his lip to stop from crying out in pain. He yanked his hand aside and then froze, fearful that his sudden movement might have alerted American sentries in the darkened building just ahead. He waited for the yell and the shattering burst of machine gun fire that would signal such a disaster. But nothing happened.

The North Korean let his breath out slowly and scanned the ground to either side. From where he lay, the other men of his hand-picked infiltration team seemed scarcely more than shadows. Black camouflage paint covered their hands and faces. They had dulled every shiny surface on their weapons and wrapped the weapons themselves in cloth to help muffle any noise made as the team inched past American outposts and firing positions.

Sohn and his men had started moving shortly after sundown, cloaked by one last diversionary attack and smoke screen. The team’s quick, soundless dash across Chungang-ro had been followed by an agonizingly slow crawl through still-smoking ruins left in the wake of the flamethrower assault. They’d made it safely, though singed and scorched, and now were almost within sight of their goal. Only a single, American-held building blocked their path. If they could slip past it without raising the alarm, making it the rest of the way to the objective — a solidly built apartment building squarely blocking the American lines of communication and resupply — would be easy.

Sohn started crawling again, moving with such infinite patience that an unwary eye might easily pass over him and rove on, unaware that it had missed anything. His men crept behind him, weighed down by packs of extra ammunition.

Five meters to safety.

A sound from the building, murmuring voices. He froze again, this time for several minutes. The voices faded.

Two meters left to go. Slowly, slowly, he told himself. Don’t rush it. This is your chance for revenge on the Yankees, don’t waste it.

Sohn rounded the last corner on his belly, put his back to the wall, and levered himself into a low crouch, stifling a groan as he put more strain on already weary muscles. One by one his soldiers crawled past him and assembled on the pavement. He grinned to himself. They’d done the hard part. All that remained now was to occupy the apartment building he’d chosen and prepare it for an all-around defense.

When the morning came, he’d let the Americans know where he was — and with a vengeance. Then the imperialists would face a difficult choice: to either retreat past his waiting guns or try to dig him out. Either choice would cost many of them their lives. Sohn had few illusions about the odds of his own survival, but he’d seen too many deaths in the past several weeks to let the prospect of his own end deter him from his duty. The stalemate along Chungang-ro had to be broken, and he and his men were the anvil upon which the Americans and their puppets would break.

The North Korean lieutenant stood and used hand signals to gather his troops. They formed on him and the whole column moved off down the street at a fast walk.

“L-T?”

Kevin looked up from his half-eaten breakfast. “Yeah?”

“India One Two’s on the horn, sir. He wants to talk to you direct.”

“Coming.” Kevin shoved the ration bag off his lap and took the stairs two at a time. Montoya had finally rigged an antenna from the third floor up onto the roof itself so that no one had to risk getting shot just to talk on the radio. He took the handset offered by the RTO. “Echo Five Six here.”

“What’s your situation, Kev?” Donaldson sounded exhausted and a lot older.

Kevin listened carefully to the sounds around him before answering. Desultory firing from the left, over by Rhee’s position. Complete silence in the center. A single rifle cracked nearby, from one of the second-story rooms, answered at once by a heavier-sounding AK burst from across the street. “It’s quiet, Major. Skirmishing only. I think we bloodied ’em pretty bad yesterday and last night.”

“That’s great. Look, Kev, I’ve sent some ammo resupply up to your position, and I want to make sure the guys humping it don’t get shot up by mistake. Can you see down Inhyo Street from there?”

Kevin moved to a rear window near the staircase. Somebody had knocked out the glass, leaving an unobstructed opening with a view south along the street. “Affirmative, Major.”

“Well, that’s the way they’re coming, so have somebody keep an eye out for ’em. And no poaching to make up your losses. Those boys are all I have to run errands for me. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.” Kevin felt himself smiling and wondered that he still could. “Hell, if they’ve got ammo for me, I’ll even send them back to you in a Rolls-Royce.”

“On foot is good enough, Kev. India One Two out,” Donaldson signed off.

Kevin decided to handle the job of watching for the ammo carriers himself. His troops were either needed on guard or busy trying to get some badly needed sleep. He leaned against the wall and eyed the street outside.

The Inhyo-ro was a study in desolation. The cars and people who would normally have filled it were gone. In their place were ragged-edged shell craters visible now and again through the gray smoke pall left by the hundreds of fires burning out of control across Taejon. The street looked utterly abandoned and alien.

He shivered slightly and blamed the chill he felt on the bad weather.

Men appeared at the edge of his vision, coming closer. Kevin raised his binoculars to get a better look. Several pairs of soldiers, each pair carting a box of precious ammo. Sweat-streaked faces. Young faces, pale and tight-lipped. Scared by this close approach to the real war.

“Jesus!” Kevin heard machine guns open up and watched in horror as the ammo carriers were mowed down, thrown dead en masse onto the pavement. He swiveled the binoculars and saw flashes winking in windows several buildings down. The guns fired for a moment longer, making sure of their victims, and then fell silent.

He spun round and saw Montoya standing openmouthed beside him. “Get Donaldson for me! Now! And tell all the platoon leaders I want them here yesterday! Go!”

He turned back to the window and stared at the tangle of bodies heaped on the street. Things had just gotten a whole lot more complicated.

Sohn spotted the wounded young American crawling and aimed carefully, bracing his assault rifle on the windowsill. Satisfied with his aim, he squeezed the AK’s trigger lightly and smiled as the man jerked once and lay still in a pool of spreading blood.

“An excellent shot, Comrade Lieutenant.”

Sohn turned to face the speaker. Sergeant Yi was an ass-kisser, but at least he was a competent ass-kisser. “Is everything ready?”

“Yes, Comrade Lieutenant. We’ve barricaded all the first-floor entrances and windows. Every possible approach is covered by cross fires. It will take a battalion to force us out of this place.”

Sohn favored the sergeant with an approving nod. “Splendid, Yi. Take your post. The Americans know we’re here now, so we can expect them to test your arrangements at any moment.”

Yi saluted sharply and left the room.

Sohn settled down to wait. He felt sure the enemy’s response wouldn’t be long in coming.

Kevin jabbed the street map with his grease pencil. “That’s the target, guys. Unless we can take that building back from the NKs, the whole battalion is well and truly fucked.” He looked closely at his platoon leaders to make sure they were following along.

Rhee nodded his understanding, but both Geary and McIntyre looked unconvinced. The burly 2nd Platoon leader spoke first. “Hell, Lieutenant, why try to take it away from ’em at all? Let the NKs sit there. We can resupply up one of these other streets here.” His stubby finger traced an imaginary line to the west of the enemy-held building.

Kevin shook his head impatiently. “It’s not that easy, Sarge. They’ve almost certainly got MGs sited to fire down that cross-street. Anybody lugging stuff across is gonna get spotted and hit.” He paused. “But even if we can get resupplied, Bravo Company can’t. Inhyo’s their lifeline to the rear. Every other path out of that train station is under enemy observation and fire. So either we clear that apartment building or Bravo eats it. And Major Donaldson doesn’t view that as an acceptable alternative.”

McIntyre looked angry. “Christ, screw the major, L-T. Why doesn’t he use those guys from Foxtrot to do this? Why should we get all the shit jobs?”

“Because we’re all that’s left, Mac.” Kevin rocked back on his heels. “Brigade took that last Foxtrot platoon away earlier this morning. They needed it to plug a gap somewhere west of here.”

There were deep frowns on every face in the command group. Things were really getting bad when nobody had any reserves held out of line. Plus, anybody with half a brain could see that NK-occupied building was going to be a tough nut to crack. Damned tough. They fell silent looking at the map.

Rhee broke the silence. “When do you want me to attack, Lieutenant?”

Kevin grimaced. He’d known it was going to come down to this, but he hadn’t wanted it to. Rhee was a friend — a last link to the past, to days before the war had turned everything upside down. Hell, Rhee was more than that. The dapper, ever cheerful South Korean had saved his life. Was this how he had to repay his friend? By sending him into the NK meat grinder any fool could see waiting for the assault force?

But Rhee was also his best platoon leader. He had the tactical sense and, more importantly, the sheer guts needed to pull this stunt off. Maybe there wasn’t really much choice after all. The mission had to come first, ahead of any considerations of friendship or risk.

“You’ll attack in fifteen minutes, Lieutenant,” Kevin heard himself saying. “Take one of your squads and one of McIntyre’s. Battalion’s promised us priority on a smoke mission, so you’ll have that at least.”

The South Korean grinned. “Very good, sir.” He stood. “With your permission, I’ll leave now to get my force ready to go in. There’s no sense in making the communists a gift of time.”

Kevin forced himself to match Rhee’s smile. “Right. Good luck, Lieutenant. We’ll watch your back for you.”

Rhee nodded and then looked squarely into Kevin’s eyes. He held out a hand and spoke more softly. “I would like you to know, Lieutenant Little, that it has been an honor serving with you.”

Numbly, Kevin shook hands and watched as the South Korean bounded down the stairs to assemble his troops.

Kevin thumbed the transmit button. “Kilo November Seven Two, this is Echo Five Six. I have a priority smoke mission. Coordinates Yankee Delta three eight seven one nine zero. Over.”

The artillery officer’s voice crackled back over the speaker. “Understood, Echo Five Six.”

There was a five-second pause, and the voice came back on the radio. “Shot, out.”

Kevin craned his neck to get a better angle on the silent apartment building less than thirty meters away. He felt naked, completely exposed to any NK sniper watching for a target. Seconds ticked away. C’mon, c’mon, where’s the arty?

A single shell screamed down out of the sky and burst on the street, spewing gray smoke in all directions. Kevin yanked his head back around the corner. “November Seven Two! On target! Fire for effect!”

More shells rained down around the North Korean — held building, and he watched the smoke screen rising, billowing above the rooftops.

“Go! Go! Go! Move out!” Rhee’s shouted commands brought the men of the assault force to their feet. With the South Korean in the lead, they ran forward and disappeared into the gray mist.

Suddenly the lower edge of the mist winked red in a dozen places as the North Koreans fired. Hundreds of bullets cracked down the street at supersonic speed, shattering brick, chewing up concrete, and puncturing flesh. High-pitched screams echoed above the chattering machine guns and assault rifles.

Kevin sat motionless, instantly aware that the attack had failed. The smoke screen hadn’t been worth a damn. The NKs were too well sited. They’d positioned their weapons to cover every possible approach. The bastards didn’t need to actually see anyone coming. All they had to do was pull their triggers, confident that every bullet fired was going into a carefully calculated kill zone. The zone Rhee and his men had just entered.

Damn it. He couldn’t stand just hearing it. He had to see it. Kevin rolled out onto the street, flat on his stomach below the stream of bullets snapping past low overhead. The screams were dwindling now, fading into low sobs and moans. The North Korean fusillade fell away as well, shrinking to a spattering of single shots and small bursts.

Something scraped on the pavement ahead of him, and Kevin lifted his head to look. Two men came out of the smoke, crawling, dragging a third man behind them. A fourth staggered blindly after them, weaponless, his hands clutching at a spreading red stain on his stomach. The first two crept past him and Kevin’s stomach lurched. The man being dragged was Rhee. He waited for other survivors to follow, but there weren’t any.

He inched back into cover and sat up, staring deliberately away from the already blood-soaked patch of pavement where Echo’s medics were working frantically on the wounded. On Rhee. He closed his eyes, not wanting to think or feel anything. Not anything. This wasn’t his fault.

But it was his fault and he knew it. Twelve men had gone down that street. In the blink of an eye, eight had been killed or mortally wounded. He should have anticipated the disaster. Planned for it. Avoided it. Instead he’d hoped for a miracle and it hadn’t come. Well, Rhee had paid the price for his mistake.

“Hey, L-T?” It was Montoya. “Kilo November wants to know if they should keep firing. What should I tell them?”

“Tell them…” Kevin gagged, fighting not to throw up. “Tell them to knock it off. It’s over.”

“No.” A hoarse, pain-filled voice protested.

He opened his eyes. Rhee had pushed himself up off the pavement despite the medic’s best efforts to make him lie still. The South Korean was a horrifying sight, shot at least twice in the chest. Kevin could see blood still welling from one of his wounds.

“You must not… abandon… the attack,” Rhee gasped out, struggling for breath. One of his lungs must have collapsed. “Take them, Lieutenant… kill the bastards for us.” He fell back, completely spent.

Kevin crawled over to where the South Korean lay sprawled. His friend’s eyes were closed, but he was still breathing, if only in short, panting gasps. The medic pulled a syringe out of his kit and jabbed it into Rhee’s arm. Kevin grabbed the man’s arm. “Will he make it?”

“Jeez, L-T, I don’t know.” The medic winced as Kevin’s fingers tightened involuntarily. “He needs evac right away, though. All I can do is try to keep him breathing for a while.”

“Oh, Christ.” They couldn’t evacuate any of the wounded, not while North Korean fire blocked every route to the rear. Either he took that building or Rhee would die, almost certainly with most of Bravo Company and a lot more of his own men. But that damned apartment building was too heavily defended. It couldn’t be taken, not without more firepower than Echo Company had. He’d need a tank to blast the place open.

A tank. Kevin felt the seeds of a plan growing in his mind. It was what he should have done the first time out. He couldn’t get a tank, but maybe he already had the next-best thing. He pushed himself upright and gripped his M16. They weren’t finished. Not by a long shot. “Montoya!”

“Yes, L-T?”

“Tell McIntyre I want a fire team in one of those houses next to the objective. They’re to lay down a suppressive fire on my order. Then get Geary on the horn and tell him I want Reese and his squad here ASAP. And have ’em bring a LAW for every man in the squad. Clear?”

Montoya nodded vigorously and started whispering into his set.

Kevin turned away and went back to sit by Rhee.

Sohn rubbed his watering eyes, thankful that the American smoke screen had at last drifted away. He smiled at the carnage visible on the street outside. The smoke had been an inconvenience, but it hadn’t prevented his troops from cutting the imperialist assault to pieces. He counted the bodies and laughed out loud in triumph. At least eight enemy dead! And not a man of his even slightly wounded. These Americans might know how to defend, but they were pathetic on the attack.

A nearby explosion wiped the smile off his face. Another attack so soon? He heard more shells bursting in rapid succession.

“Comrade Lieutenant!” Sergeant Yi skidded into the room. “Another smoke screen. This time to the north!”

A machine gun chattered nearby, followed by the softer rattle of American M16s. The Yankees had shifted their axis of attack.

Sohn brushed past Yi on his way out the door. “Pull half the men to the north! And join me there!”

He ran down the hall, unslinging his AK as he ran.

Kevin heard the firing from McIntyre’s diversionary attack, took a deep breath, and released it in a yell: “Now! Hit the fuckers!”

Half a dozen LAWs flashed from concealed positions on both sides of the street, reaching for the barricaded windows of the North Korean-held apartment building. They exploded on target, bursting in brief showers of orange flame.

Now. Kevin lunged outside onto the street and raced toward the apartment building. He heard men running behind him and heard them yelling. A wild rebel yell rising in pitch and volume, bouncing off the high, concrete walls all around. He fired from the hip, felt the M16 bounce in his hands, and saw sparks fly around one of the shattered, smoking windows.

Suddenly he realized that he was yelling with all the rest.

In! He hurled himself headfirst through the empty window and rolled to a stop in a tangle of gear. A North Korean writhed in agony in one corner of the small room, bleeding from half a dozen splinter wounds. One hand clutched a rifle. Kevin shot him and reloaded.

Reese crashed in through the same window and sprawled, covering the open door.

“Take your squad and clear this side! Move!”

The black corporal nodded and got to his feet. He risked one glance through the doorway and then bolted through it.

Kevin followed him into the hallway and turned the other way, moving toward a bend. He heard running footsteps from up ahead and ran faster. He had to make it around the bend first.

He did it and turned the corner ahead of the North Koreans. There were four or five of them just meters away. Kevin saw soot-blackened faces, waving assault rifles, and eyes widening in shock at his sudden appearance.

“Eat this!” He clicked the M16 to full automatic and held the trigger down, pumping a whole twenty-round magazine into the NKs. They were thrown against the wall in spray of blood. An AK cracked once and Kevin felt something tug at his sleeve. A bullet. His rifle clicked empty and he ducked back around the corner, hearing only moans from his victims. He pulled the pin on a grenade and tossed it.

WHUMMP! The corridor shook and dust swirled. Silence, followed by more muffled explosions from behind him as his men cleared the lower floor room by room.

He risked a quick peek around the corner. No signs of other NKs moving to the attack. They’d have to be dug out one at a time. Kevin settled back to wait for reinforcements and snapped a new magazine into his M16.

Sohn couldn’t understand it. The wheel had turned so quickly. How could the Americans have broken in? How could he have let that happen?

He shook his head in dismay and turned to Yi. The sergeant looked like a wreck, with his uniform ripped in a dozen places and a jagged cut across his forehead. He still seemed stunned by the rocket explosion that had so nearly killed him. Sohn frowned. The man was useless in that state.

More shots sounded from down the corridor, closer this time. They were followed by another explosion. The Americans were advancing steadily, eliminating his troops as they lay pinned by fire from the outside. They held the initiative on this floor.

Sohn made a quick decision and wheeled to face Yi squarely. “Get every man who can walk to the second floor. We’ll murder them on the staircases!” He forced himself to sound calm and confident and was pleased to see the sergeant seem to take heart from his orders.

They could still win this battle.

“Grenade!” Reese screamed, and threw himself away from the staircase. Kevin flattened and heard fragments whine overhead as the NK grenade exploded. He crawled to where Reese lay patting himself to check for wounds.

“You hit?”

The big corporal smiled thinly. “Nope, L-T Guess they just wasted some more ammo.”

“Maybe.” Kevin coughed in the dust-choked air. “What’re your casualties?”

The smile disappeared. “Two dead. Watkins and Lonnie Smith. A couple more wounded. None bad, though.”

Kevin frowned. Four gone out of the men he’d brought in. That left only five men, plus him. Not enough. He ducked as a new burst of AK fire from above tore up the bottom of the staircase. He looked at Reese. “Any chance of a rush up those stairs, Corporal?”

The man considered it for a second and then spat onto the dust-coated hardwood floor. “Not a chance in hell, L-T. They got it covered too well.”

“Grenades, then?”

Reese shook his head slowly. “They’d just toss ’em back down at us. That’s how Lonnie bought it.”

Kevin took another grenade off his combat webbing and stood, careful to stay flattened up against the wall. “Get your boys together, Reese, and I’ll show you a little ol’ trick I once heard about from a sergeant I knew.” He felt himself starting to sweat.

With the squad backing him up, Kevin edged closer to the staircase. He stopped, inches away from the opening, and listened. Footsteps and whispering voices wafted down the splintered stairs. Then he lifted the grenade and pulled the pin, counting the passing seconds silently. One thousand one. One thousand two. One thousand three.

“For Christ’s sake, L-T. Throw it!” Reese sounded shaken.

Kevin shook his head while counting. One thousand five. Now. He stepped to the opening and lobbed the grenade up the stairs.

Sohn saw the grenade bounce off the bannister and roll toward him. He reached for it. Another weapon to hurl back in the imperialists’ faces. The thought brought a thin-lipped smile to his face as his fingers closed around the grenade.

It exploded.

Kevin used the tip of his boot to roll the dead North Korean officer over and winced at the sight. The man must have taken the full force of the explosion at point-blank range.

“L-T?”

He looked up. Reese was standing nearby, breathing hard.

“We got ’em all, sir. The building’s cleared.”

Kevin nodded and felt the fatigue he’d held at bay starting to rush in. “We lose anybody else?”

The corporal shook his head. “Not a one, L-T, thank God.”

“Yeah. And a sergeant named Pierce.” Kevin sank to his knees.

“You all right, L-T?” Reese sounded worried. “You ain’t hit, are you?”

It took an effort to answer. “No, just used up.” He straightened his back. “Look, go find Montoya and tell him to contact Battalion and let ’em know it’s done.”

Reese stood still for a second and then saluted. Kevin nodded wearily and closed his eyes, listening as the corporal’s boots clattered downstairs. They’d won.

McLaren glanced at his watch. Just after midnight. He picked up his binoculars and focused them on the scene to the north.

Taejon lay burning, eerily illuminated by flares. Shells burst brightly in the center of the city, and he could hear the clatter of automatic weapons clearly — even at this distance. Tracers floated lazily through the air, reaching for unseen targets.

He turned to the South Korean major general standing next to him in the foot-deep snow. “Well, General, can you hold?”

The other man didn’t move, staring intently at the ruined city. “Yes, we can. My troops have already shattered three of the communists’ best divisions. Their dead are stacked like cordwood in Taejon’s streets.”

A helicopter roared low overhead, carrying wounded to the field hospital at the foot of the hill.

“And your own casualties?”

The major general shrugged. “They are very heavy, too. Around fifty percent.” He paused. “We could use reinforcements, General. These men have fought hard. They deserve a short rest.”

McLaren nodded. “You’ll get them. But only a brigade. I need every other man elsewhere.”

“A brigade is sufficient. We will hold them here.”

“Excellent, General.” McLaren turned back to watch the fires burning their way through Taejon. More flares popped above the city, and the sound of gunfire rose higher. Another North Korean attack going in, more men dying, he thought. “Doug!”

Hansen came out of the shadows. “Yes, sir?”

“Signal all commands. Let’s get Thunderbolt ready to go.”

The sacrifices made at Taejon would not be in vain.

The long convoy rumbled slowly along the winding road, moving at a walking pace through the darkness. MPs stationed beside the road with shielded flashlights guided the intermingled, kilometers-long column of tanks, trucks, and self-propelled guns. Whenever a vehicle broke down, teams of engineers, mechanics, and combat soldiers were quickly mustered to shove it out of the way and into cover. The column could not let anything delay it. It had to be dispersed and under camouflage before the next Soviet spy satellite swung high overhead.

There were other convoys on the road that night. All were moving west, trundling down toward the flatlands near the sea.

The preparations for Thunderbolt were under way.