Red Phoenix

CHAPTER 42 Decision

The Premier of the People’s Republic of China studied his colleagues closely, careful to hide his amusement as he watched the Politburo debate settle into its usual patterns. Late middle age had given him a perspective on human nature unclouded by sentiment or optimism, but it still amazed him that China’s wisest and most experienced leaders could disagree so vehemently and so predictably about so many different issues.

In fairness, however, the Premier had to admit that the matter now before the Politburo was a momentous one, worthy of considered and careful discussion. Still, time pressed on while these men threw the same tired phrases back and forth. The American and Soviet flotillas were within hours of shooting at each other. A war begun in the Sea of Japan could engulf the whole world within minutes. And still these men talked.

The hard-liners, the archconservative communists, were the most predictable of all — the most vocal. Their leader, Do Zhenping, the Party’s general secretary, was the elder statesman of Chinese ideology, the last veteran of the Long March. His words carried weight. “Why even consider this imperialist intrigue? If we act as the Americans suggest, we will help end the war — but it will end in their favor! How do we gain by that?”

“Surely, the answer to that is obvious, Comrade General Secretary?” Liu Gendong was quick to answer. As the minister of trade and one of the youngest men on the Politburo, he led its progressive faction. His oldest son was an exchange student in America now, studying nuclear physics at the California Institute of Technology. Since its early-morning arrival in Beijing, Liu had emerged as the strongest supporter of the American proposal.

He steepled his hands. “The economic and technological concessions the Americans have offered us will be of tremendous benefit to every sector of our economy. And the proposed trade agreements with South Korea are only a start. Japan cannot sit idly by while its archrival trades freely with us. Nor can Hong Kong or Singapore. They will bid against each other for our favor. The Four Tigers will bow to the Dragon!” He smiled, clearly imagining the negotiations he could conduct should such an event occur.

The Premier saw Liu’s words cause a stir among the undecideds who held the balance of power on the Politburo. He nodded slightly to himself. The minister of trade was a persuasive, if overly enthusiastic, young man. He opted to display cautious support for Liu’s position. “The minister’s words are well-taken, Comrade General Secretary. China is a poor country. We need markets for our raw materials, and we desperately need foreign exchange to buy technology.”

Do Zhenping was unconvinced, his tone unrepentant and uncompromising. “Our merchants have been whoring for the West for years. I see no need to allow them to spread their legs wider.” There were grins at the old revolutionary’s coarse language. It was his most conspicuous resistance to the smoother, more sophisticated face of New China. The old man continued, enunciating every word. “If change must come, let it be slow and not sudden. Let us emulate the tortoise and not the hare. That is the best course for our Revolution.”

“Is it, comrade?” Liu spoke quietly. “Do we have the time? The rest of the world leaps forward while we crawl.”

“Let them leap,” the older man answered petulantly. “Their mad consumerism is not an example worthy of imitation.”

He spoke earnestly, directing his words to everyone at the table, especially the Premier. “We owe the West no favors. They sucked our life’s blood for centuries before the people rose up in righteous anger.” Do stood up unsteadily. All eyes were on him. Age was still revered in China, and this survivor of the Revolution was the voice of history. “Listen to me. Despite its successes, America can still lose this war. The Russians stand ready to help swing the balance back. If we help the imperialists win, we will be seen as the nation that turned its back on its socialist brothers.”

He waved a hand, dispelling arguments not yet voiced. “I have no love for Kim and his gang. His ‘dynastic communism’ is a perversion, a personality cult reduced to absurdity. But what will the world see? China, aspiring to be the world’s third superpower, rescuing capitalist America from a situation that her own weakness and indecision created. I suggest that would not exactly endear us to our fellow communists.”

The old man coughed, a reminder of his bout with pneumonia earlier in the winter. He wiped his lips and continued, “And there is risk. The only way we could force Kim to end his war would be to threaten him with our own troops. The Koreans are already firmly in the Soviet camp. Can we afford to back them further into the arms of the Kremlin?”

The Premier looked around the table. Heads were nodding. Do’s impassioned words were hitting home with some of the Politburo’s swing voters. But not with enough to be decisive. The conservatives and the progressives were too closely matched on this issue for either to prevail openly.

He smiled. The situation was perfect.

China wanted to act on the world stage, but she did not want to be seen as the puppet of another superpower. China wanted foreign trade, but she did not want the foreign influence that must inevitably follow. China wanted to be America’s friend, but she did not want to be North Korea’s enemy. In short, China wanted it all — the sun, the sea, the moon, and the stars.

And the Premier knew how to get it.

The time had come to intervene — both in the debate and in the war. He leaned forward and rapped sharply on the table. “Comrades! The time grows short. We must make a decision soon, before events move beyond our ability to control them.”

His colleagues nodded, somewhat impatiently. That much was obvious.

He looked first at Do and then at Liu. “Comrade General Secretary and Comrade Minister, I do not believe that our respective positions on this matter are necessarily opposed to each other.” He saw the skepticism on both men’s faces and smiled politely. “Let me show you what I mean.”

The Premier took five minutes to outline his proposal and knew that he had won them over before he finished. China would lay its cards on the table of global politics in its own way.

The general rubbed a hand absentmindedly through the close-cropped thatch of gray bristles he called a haircut and squinted into the early-morning light pouring through his office window. The courtyard outside, normally utterly quiet and empty at this hour, looked like an anthill stirred by some mischievous child. Soldiers in full combat gear ran everywhere, loading bags of rice, machine guns, light mortars, and ammunition boxes onto a ragtag assembly of flatbed trucks. Others were being marshaled in platoon formations and then marched away toward the airfield. The general knew that similar scenes were taking place at barracks areas all across the capital.

He turned at a quick rap on his door. “Come in.”

It was the division’s deputy commander, a short, bandy-legged colonel whose flat-featured face showed Mongol blood. “You wanted to see me, Comrade General?”

“Yes, Colonel.” The general waved a hand toward the window. “I’d like a progress report.”

The shorter man nodded and relaxed slightly. The general’s voice was uncharacteristically friendly. “The division’s assembly is proceeding precisely on schedule, sir. The First Parachute Regiment and Major Lin’s Reconnaissance Company are already at the airfield. The Second Regiment is enroute from its barracks area, and the Third will follow shortly.”

“Excellent. So I can tell the high command that we shall be ready for movement later this afternoon?”

“Certainly, Comrade General.” The colonel hesitated, apparently unsure about whether to say anything more.

“Yes? Is there something else, Colonel?”

The other nodded and tugged his tunic straight. “Simply this, Comrade General. I only wanted to ask if this mobilization was merely some kind of surprise drill.”

The general frowned and paused, considering his answer carefully. He wasn’t in the habit of telling his subordinates more than they needed to know. Still, this was an unusual situation, and his deputy had always been discreet. He opted for candor. “No. I spoke with the Premier himself, late last night. The alert is genuine and concerns possible service outside the People’s Republic.”

“Indeed, Comrade General?”

“Something puzzles you, Kua?” The general was curious. The colonel’s skepticism had been obvious.

The shorter man nodded. “Yes, sir. Before reporting to you, I spoke with General Chen of the Air Force. His transport aircraft have not been alerted. That leaves a question in my mind, Comrade General. If we are being sent to foreign lands, how are we supposed to get there?”

“An excellent question, Colonel.” The general shrugged. “And one I am unable to answer. No doubt the Premier has his plans, although he hasn’t yet made me a full party to them.”

He turned to the window to watch yet another battalion march out the main gate, arms swinging high and rifles slung. He turned back to the colonel. “In the meantime, my friend, we have our orders to carry out. See to it that they are carried out expeditiously. The Premier has stressed the need for haste in this matter.”

“Of course, Comrade General.” The colonel saluted and left to hurry things along. Assembling an airborne division of more than nine thousand men took constant attention.

Choi Ki-Wan, a survivor of more than forty years of deadly intrigue, was as cautious in his choice of words as he was in his basic nature. “You have some further word from our mutual, ah, ‘friend’?”

Tai Han-Gi, the minister of communications, smiled indulgently at his older colleague on North Korea’s Politburo. The man was right to fear eavesdropping by Kim Jong-Il’s security forces, but there were, after all, certain advantages to commanding all communications facilities throughout the whole People’s Republic. And they included access to the latest Japanese antibugging equipment. Tai had no fear of Kim Jong-Il spies within the confines of his own office.

He folded his hands. “Indeed, Comrade Choi. I have heard much from our ‘friends’ within these past few hours.”

“Do they offer a solution to our common problem?”

Tai nodded and said flatly, “Yes.” Then he learned closer to the older man. “Actions are being taken now that should give us the opening we need. But there can be no hesitation, no wavering when the time comes for us to act. We are playing a high stakes game — a game with infinite rewards for the victors and infinite torments for the losers. You understand?”

He read the momentary indecision on Choi’s face and wondered if it might prove necessary to arrange a speedy accident for his old comrade in arms. He hoped not. It would be both personally painful and dangerous. Kim’s agents were everywhere.

To his relief Choi’s uncertain resolve hardened.

“Yes, I understand. Well, we must bear those risks. There is no other way to preserve our Revolution.”

Or to preserve our own positions and privileges, Tai thought cynically. No matter, he had Choi’s commitment, and with it the collaboration of all the older man’s supporters. His patrons outside Pyongyang would be pleased.

The five men crowding the Oval Office could not conceal their restlessness. The President paced ceaselessly, his face haggard from too many sleepless nights. Paul Bannerman, the secretary of state, paced beside him, looking equally worn and rumpled. South Korea’s ambassador, Kang Ki-baek, sat motionless by the fireplace, gazing intently into the dancing flames. Blake Fowler sat beside him, all too conscious of his own bleary, red-rimmed eyes, crumpled suit jacket, and notepad filled with nervous doodlings. Only Admiral Simpson seemed outwardly calm as he stood beside the President’s desk, staring out the window at his own reflection.

“Phil, what’s the latest word from Brown’s task force?”

Blake looked up.ThePresident had stopped pacing and nowstood shoulder to shoulder with the admiral.

Simpson glanced at the taller man. “The Soviet strike group is still closing, sir. Tom estimates they’ll cross into his declared exclusion zone within five hours. After that he’ll have just over an hour before the Russians get within missile range of his carriers.” The admiral squared his shoulders. “He’ll have to have permission to hit them before that happens, Mr. President.”

The President nodded absentmindedly and crossed the room back to Bannerman. “Well, where the hell is he, Paul? What are those folks in Beijing playing at? First their ambassador asks for an immediate meeting and now he’s late getting here.”

Bannerman looked to Blake for rescue. “Any ideas, Dr. Fowler? After all, you’re the China expert here.”

“I’m sure it’s not an intentional delay, Mr. President,” Blake said, hoping he was right. Too many lives depended on this meeting to contemplate being wrong. “The NSA says the signals traffic between the ambassador and Beijing has been extremely heavy all day. I suspect their embassy staff has had problems keeping up with the high-level decoding required.”

The President stared at him for a moment without speaking and then resumed his pacing.

His phone buzzed softly and he reached across the desk to get it. “Yes? Okay, June, send him right in.” The President hung up and turned to face the others. “The ambassador’s car just pulled up. He’ll be up shortly.”

Shortly was something of an understatement. The Chinese ambassador was ushered into the room two minutes later. And despite his evident hurry, he’d obviously taken great care in dressing. His perfectly pressed charcoal-gray suit, white shirt, and red tie made the small, prim man look more like a prosperous Hong Kong banker than the emissary of the world’s most populous communist nation. It also made Blake feel scruffy in comparison.

“Mr. President, I am deeply honored that you have agreed to receive me at this late hour.” The ambassador bowed slightly and straightened. “I hope you will forgive me for this inexcusable delay.”

The President donned his warmest “campaign” smile and stepped forward with his hand outstretched. “There’s nothing to forgive, Mr. Ambassador. As always, I’m delighted to see you.”

The two men shook hands and moved to a pair of chairs closer to the fire. South Korea’s ambassador settled himself beside them.

The Chinese ambassador wasted little time with the usual diplomatic pleasantries. He reached into the leather briefcase he’d brought with him and pulled out a sheaf of papers bearing the official seal of the People’s Republic. “I have my government’s response to your request that we aid you in bringing this unfortunate war to an end.”

He handed a copy to both the President and the South Korean ambassador.

As the two men scanned the documents, Blake felt his heart speeding up and pressed a hand hard onto his right knee to keep it from trembling visibly in nervous anticipation. He watched the President’s face closely and felt his hopes sink as he saw the Chief Executive arch an eyebrow. Had the Chinese refused them or set impossible conditions on their help?

At last the President looked up from his reading and stared hard at the ambassador. “Your government’s answer seems” — he searched visibly for the right word — ”somewhat tentative, Mr. Ambassador. Much seems to depend on events over which we have little control.”

He handed the papers to Bannerman and turned to South Korea’s ambassador. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Kang?”

The South Korean nodded somberly.

The Chinese emissary sat farther forward in his chair, an earnest and amiable smile on his lips. “Mr. President, Mr. Ambassador, please. It is true that there are certain, ah, conditional aspects to our reply to your proposal.” He glanced at his watch. “However, I have been personally assured by my Premier that, even as we speak, actions are being taken that will ensure that those conditions are met.”

Bannerman gave the Chinese reply to Blake, who scanned it quickly — astounded by the grand political design it described in such short, simple words. He stared for a moment at the papers, with his mind half a world away as he tried to assess the diplomatic and military pressures now set in motion. Would they be enough?

He felt the President’s eyes on him, looked up to meet them, and nodded. What the Chinese intended just might work. Hell, it had to work. There wasn’t time to try anything else.

The President nodded back. Blake’s unspoken assessment matched his own instinctive reaction. They’d have to hope that the Chinese knew what they were doing. He sat back in his high-backed Georgian chair. “Very well, Mr. Ambassador. We’ll wait with you for these ‘conditions’ to materialize.” He forced a smile. “In the meantime, can we offer your something to drink? Tea, or perhaps something stronger?”

The ambassador smiled back. “Thank you, Mr. President. Tea would be most welcome.”

“Splendid.” The President looked at his watch and frowned. He reached into an inner pocket, pulled out a pen and small notepad, and scribbled a quick note. He motioned to the admiral still standing by the window. “Phil, could you arrange for this to be sent immediately? I don’t want any unfortunate accidents while there’s still hope that this thing can be settled.”

Simpson crossed the room and read the note. It was addressed to Admiral Thomas Aldrige Brown. He nodded abruptly and left the Oval Office at a fast walk. Time was running out in the Yellow Sea.

Brown read the signal from Washington one more time. “You’re sure this has been authenticated, Jim?”

His chief of staff nodded. “It’s genuine, Admiral.”

“Shit.” Brown stared at the Flag Plot’s strategic display. It showed the position of all known Soviet naval and air units in the region. All were closing on his task force. They would be within range in four or five hours at most. He balled his hands into fists and kept them rigid at his sides. The President’s order went against all his instincts to hit before being hit.

Slowly, very slowly, Brown forced his hands to relax. An order was an order. He turned to his chief of staff and said, “Okay, Jim. Signal Washington that we’re complying. And tell CAG to keep his pilots in the ready room. Takeoff time has been postponed for at least three hours.”

Brown turned back to the display as his chief of staff hurried away. He could see it happening again — the same kind of political indecision and drift that had gotten so many good men killed in the air over North Vietnam. The Soviets were going to get within missile range while Washington diddled around. And there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Not a damned thing.

The General Secretary stared slowly around the elegantly furnished room at the other members of the ruling Politburo. Many were his creatures, men he had plucked from lesser positions and promoted to serve his own interests. But if his years in power had taught him anything, it was that loyalty within the Party was a fair-weather commodity. It was there when things went right and gone the instant things went wrong.

And things had been going wrong.

His gaze settled on the defense minister and he scowled. The man sat quiet and unmoving in his chair, his dark brown eyes deeply shadowed and his shoulders slumped. The General Secretary gritted his teeth. The bastard. The foolish bastard.

He rapped gently on the table, ending the low hum of a half-dozen whispered conversations. “Comrades, we face a grave crisis — one with enormous implications for the safety of our motherland.”

Heads around the table nodded. They’d all been briefed on the growing military confrontation between the Soviet Union and the United States. All had been shocked by the speed with which it had developed, and most were unsure of the causes.

The General Secretary continued without pause. “Most of us had assumed that American attack on our surveillance aircraft and submarine was unprovoked. Naturally we felt compelled to respond to this aggression — and to respond with overwhelming force. Hence our preparations for a massive retaliatory strike on the murderous American warships.”

Murmured agreement swept around the table. Although the Defense Council had made its decisions without consulting the full Politburo, all present had seen the necessity of matching the Americans blow for blow. Any other course would only invite continued imperialist aggression.

The General Secretary held up a hand for quiet and shook his head sadly. “Comrades, it is with deep regret that I must tell you that we were misinformed, or perhaps I should say ‘misled,’ by one of our most trusted colleagues.”

He turned to face the defense minister. “Have I misstated the facts in any way, Andrei Ivanovich?”

A shocked silence spread throughout the room. Only the foreign minister was unsurprised. He’d been briefed by the General Secretary more than an hour before.

The defense minister, seeming strangely smaller despite his height, unwrinkled uniform, and multiple rows of medals, sighed and sat upright. “No, Comrade General Secretary.”

The defense minister pulled a handwritten document lying before him on the table closer and began reading in a flat, emotionless voice. “Comrades, on January eleventh of this year, on my own authority, I ordered the submarine Konstantin Dribinov to attack a group of American warships. I made this decision unilaterally, without consulting any other member of this body.”

He raised his eyes briefly and the General Secretary could read the hate directed toward the end of the table — toward the director of the KGB. The General Secretary could understand that. When he’d confronted the KGB chieftain with his suspicions, the man had buckled and sold his fellow conspirator down the river without a qualm, interested only in preserving his own position — however temporarily.

“Go on, Comrade Minister. Continue your confession,” the General Secretary prodded, anxious lest the delay raise further, unanswerable questions in the minds of other Politburo members.

The defense minister dropped his eyes to the paper before him. “I made this unilateral decision in response to an urgent request from our allies in Pyongyang. They needed our assistance to help repel an American amphibious attack apparently aimed at their western coast. They had no way of stopping this attack themselves — ”

The foreign minister interrupted, no longer able to contain his anger or his contempt. “An attack that later proved to be nothing more than a ploy!”

“Yes, that is true.” The defense minister’s voice shrank to a hollow whisper. He was silent for a second and then looked up from his notes. He’d been reading them verbatim, but as he continued, he spoke from memory. The General Secretary watched closely, ready to break in should the man stray from the agreed-upon version of the facts. “The momentum of the North Korean attack was slowing, and our materiel assistance no longer seemed enough to ensure victory. I believed that a limited, covert intervention by Soviet forces could restore the situation.”

The foreign minister snorted. “Your so-called ‘covert’ assistance is now spread all over the Western media, comrade.” He raised an eyebrow. “Why, I believe I saw your Captain Markov giving an interview to one of the American television networks.” There were uncomfortable chuckles from the others.

The defense minister flushed red at the gibe. “His orders were explicit. He was not to reveal his identity.”

“Then he failed in his orders. And you have brought us to the brink of an unnecessary and unwinnable war with the West.” The foreign minister spoke flatly, stating facts.

“That is also true, comrade.” The defense minister lowered his head to hide his anger at this public humiliation and then slowly, deliberately read the last paragraph of his prepared statement. “Because of my unilateral actions, Soviet citizens have lost their lives, and our country has been placed in a dangerous confrontation with the imperialist powers. Therefore, I hereby resign my position as minister of defense, my membership on the Central Committee, and my active membership in our beloved Party. Further, I request that I be allowed to retire immediately.”

The General Secretary looked slowly around the table, moving his eyes from man to man, seeking their decision. One by one, each shook his head. The defense minister’s error was too great. Lives had been lost, Soviet prestige reduced, and the chain of command usurped. He would not be allowed to fade away comfortably. A public trial would only further erode the authority of the State, but the Minister’s demise for “reasons of ill health” would soon follow.

Satisfied that he had his answer, the General Secretary cleared his throat and said harshly, “Very well, comrade, you have your answer. You may go. We have work to do.”

The defense minister inclined his head, rose stiffly without speaking, and left the room.

The General Secretary watched him go and then turned to face his colleagues. “Now, comrades, we face the difficult task of extricating ourselves from this mess without igniting a global conflict. Some of the actions we must take are obvious, others less so.”

He crooked a finger at the director of the KGB. “What is the latest news from the war zone, Comrade Director? How are our gallant slant-eyed allies faring?” He let the sarcasm drip from every word to show the Politburo just how he felt about the North Koreans.

“Disastrously, Comrade General Secretary.” The director shook his head. “The imperialist counteroffensive has been astoundingly successful. Our most recent satellite photos show their columns nearing the sea. The Americans and their South Korean puppets are within a day or two of completely surrounding most of the North’s remaining combat formations.”

“Can they be stopped?”

“No.” The KGB director’s words were sure and certain. “The armies of the North are increasingly incapable of undertaking any coordinated offensive or defensive action south of the former demilitarized zone. Their tanks have no fuel, their artillery has no ammunition, and their men have no food. They have been beaten.”

The General Secretary saw anger and dismay flit across the faces around the table. Previous Ministry of Defense briefings on the battlefield situation had painted a much more favorable picture. Naturally.

During the silence that followed the KGB chieftain’s gloomy appraisal, he saw one of the foreign minister’s aides slip into the room with some kind of telex. More good news, no doubt. No matter, it was time to show his colleagues how recent events could still be turned to their advantage. He shifted his eyes and broke the silence. “I think it is clear, comrades, that we must persuade Kim Jong-Il to save what he can of his forces in the South. The survivors can regroup behind their fortifications along the Demilitarized Zone. They will of course need to be rearmed and reequipped. And we shall supply those needs.”

He saw the puzzlement on their faces and smiled. “Think, comrades. Every piece of our equipment the younger Kim accepts puts him further in our debt and in our power. With the Americans and their puppets pounding at his gates, he will have no choice but to accede to our every demand. We shall be the de facto rulers of North Korea. And once that is accomplished, an armistice can easily be arranged. We may not have conquered South Korea, but certainly half a loaf is better than none.” He smiled at his own plan.

“Forgive me, Comrade General Secretary, but that may not be as easy to achieve as you imagine.” The foreign minister held out a telex. “I’ve just received this communique from Beijing. It seems that the People’s Republic of China has just announced that it will support an immediate cease-fire on the Korean peninsula.”

He laid the first telex aside and picked up another. “And this is a message specifically directed to us. In it, the Chinese announce their intention to oppose continued support or arms shipments from any country not now a belligerent. They go on to say that such interference will be met with any and all appropriate means, up to and including the use of military force.” The foreign minister folded the telex and sent it down the table toward the General Secretary.

“They’re bluffing!” The KGB director’s face had turned bright red. He’d always loathed the Chinese. “They haven’t got enough military power to frighten a small child.”

“Perhaps not by themselves, Viktor Mikhailovich. But what about when they are joined by the Americans? Their message also indicates that they have offered the use of an airborne division to act as a peacekeeping force while the cease-fire is implemented. And that they are asking the Americans to provide the air transport for those troops!”

Silence greeted the foreign minister’s words. The news was worse than any of the members of the Politburo could have imagined.

At last the General Secretary spoke through stiff lips. Long-held plans were collapsing around his ears. “The signal the Chinese are sending is easy to read. They are on the verge of wholeheartedly allying with the Americans.”

It was unthinkable. Unimaginable just a few short months before. How could he have guessed that the insane gamble of one North Korean megalomaniac could destroy years of hard diplomatic work and cautious maneuvering? He had come to power as General Secretary determined to reweave the Soviet hegemony over the Far East — to bring China back into its proper orbit around Moscow, to bend the emerging economic powers of Asia to the Kremlin’s will. And now all that was falling apart.

He stirred himself into action. He’d fought enough battles in his time to know when to cut his losses. “Comrades, this latest Chinese betrayal changes everything. The new correlation of forces is clear. And our own course is equally clear. We must now act swiftly to save what we can.”

He quickly outlined what he had in mind. There wasn’t much discussion. There really were no realistic alternatives.

Admiral Valentin Zakorov read the urgent signal from the Kremlin with great relief. Sanity had evidently prevailed somewhere within those red brick walls.

He looked up at Frunze’s captain, who stood impatiently waiting for new orders. “Captain Nikolayev?”

“Sir?”

Zakorov stuffed the message in his uniform pocket. “Signal the formation to immediately alter course to zero three zero degrees. We’ve been ordered back to Vladivostok.”

“At once, Admiral.” Nikolayev left on his errand.

The admiral looked at the chart showing two American carrier battle groups within four hundred miles of his force and sent a mental prayer to the nonexistent God for sparing his ships the test of battle. Beneath his feet he felt the deck surge as his battle cruiser turned and picked up speed — steaming home for safe harbor.

Colonel Sergiev Ivanovitch Borodin blinked his navigation lights three times and then threw his MiG-29 into a tight, rolling turn to the northeast. He looked to either side and saw the planes belonging to the eight other surviving pilots of his erstwhile training squadron settling into formation. Good, the political officer’s covert message had reached all of them.

His radio suddenly squawked. “Fulcrum Flight, what are you doing? That turn was not on your flight plan. On your present course you will leave your designated patrol area in three minutes. Acknowledge. Over.”

Borodin smiled wryly. At least one of the North Korean ground-based air controllers had been awake. He ignored the voice and opened his MiG-29’s throttle, watching in satisfaction as the fighter accelerated smoothly past six hundred knots.

“Fulcrum Flight, you are now out of your patrol area. What the hell are you playing at? Over.”

Borodin smiled more broadly. He recognized this new voice. It belonged to the arrogant bastard in charge of the North Korean capital’s air defense network — a network he and his squadron were leaving behind at an increasingly fast clip.

He clicked his mike. “Good afternoon, General. This is Fulcrum Lead. We’re not playing at anything. We’re simply obeying our orders.” He glanced out the cockpit. They were crossing into North Korean’s rugged Taeback Mountains. Snowfields sparkled in the sunlight.

“Orders? Who gave you orders that override mine?”

Borodin laughed for the first time in weeks. “Moscow, my dear, slant-eyed General. And my orders from Moscow are very simple. We’re going home.”

He clicked off and switched frequencies to pick up the Vladivostok Air Defense Network. They were less than thirty minutes away from entering Soviet airspace. The North Koreans would have to fly their own planes from now on.

Kim Jong-Il listened to the increasing flow of reports with a sinking heart. There couldn’t be any doubt left. The Soviets were abandoning him — pulling every last adviser, combat pilot, and technical expert they had out of the country as fast as they could. Even the munitions trains from Vladivostok had stopped, some within a few kilometers of the border.

“Well, Dear Leader? Now what shall we do? What miracle do you offer?” an insolent voice asked.

He looked up at the speaker, Tai Han-Gi, and felt his despair transformed into a towering rage. How dare any man, even one on the Defense Council, address him in that manner? He was the son of the Great Leader — and a great leader in his own right.

Kim slammed his fist into the table. “Coward! Chinese puppet!” He pointed a pudgy finger at the unmoved face of the minister of communications. “Your time is coming, old man. I advise you not to hasten your own end.”

He saw the other old men around the table frowning at his words and forced himself to calm down. With the crisis upon them, rage was an unproductive emotion, and his revenge for Tai’s slights would have to wait. He lowered his voice to a more reasonable level. “Comrades, we need no miracles here. Certainly the situation we face is a difficult one. But it is not insoluble. It is true that the Russians and their weapons were useful, but we can live and fight without them.”

Kim levered himself up out of his chair and moved to the situation map hung on one of the underground bunker’s reinforced concrete walls. He tapped the area around Taejon. “Our First Shock Army is still fighting gallantly, and I have no doubt it will soon crush this temporary enemy incursion into our liberated zone.” He saw the sneer on Tai’s face and chose to ignore it.

“Even more important, comrades, we still possess vast, untapped resources. Our Red Guard militia alone musters more than two million fighting men and women. With them fully mobilized, we shall be able to sweep down from the north and crush the fascists once and for all. This war is not lost! The final victory is within sight. We have only to reach out with both hands and seize it.”

Silence greeted his words. A silence broken only by a single, dry cough.

“Yes, Choi?” Kim couldn’t keep the disdain he felt from showing.

“A simple question, Dear Leader.” Choi coughed again, covering his mouth with a withered, wrinkled hand. “Do you propose to repeal the laws of mathematics during this final drive for victory?”

“What do you mean?” Kim’s uneasiness multiplied. These men were beginning to openly defy his judgment. Perhaps they were even mocking him.

“Only this, Kim Jong-Il.” Choi paused to let the insult sink in. “You say that we have two million men and women in our Red Guards. And that is true. But does not the South have twice that number of its own militia?”

Kim dismissed Choi’s question with an abrupt wave. “The oppressed masses of the South will not fight their liberators! America’s bandit mercenaries will be left to face our people on their own.”

Tai laughed harshly. “You seem to forget, comrade, that the ‘oppressed masses of the South’ have already been more than willing to fight our armies. Read the reports from your own commanders if you doubt my word.” The others nodded their agreement. “The truth, comrade, is that you are living in some kind of fantasy world, while the rest of us must live with the reality of the wreckage you are creating.”

Kim goggled at him, struck dumb by the man’s audacity. Tai must have a death wish, he thought wildly. So be it, I shall oblige him.

The minister of communications continued without letup, “This war is lost. China now stands ready to join forces with our adversaries. The truth is that we cannot afford your ruinous rule any longer.”

“Traitor!” Kim screamed, and saw spittle from his mouth spray out. He lunged back to his chair and stabbed a finger onto the security buzzer installed there. Then he straightened and smiled grimly, eyeing the rest of the men around the table. “Who else stands with this Chinese lackey? I assure you that there are unmarked graves enough for all of you!”

He heard the door open behind his back and heard footsteps. He spoke without turning around. “Captain Lew, you will arrest those two immediately.” He pointed to Tai and Choi, both of whom still sat calmly in their chairs. “Then you will stand ready by me. There may be more arrests to follow.”

Tai smiled easily. “Comrade Kim, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so tired before. I think you’ve been working too hard. In fact, I believe that you deserve a long rest, a very long rest. Don’t you agree, Comrade Choi?”

Choi nodded. “Undoubtedly, Comrade Tai.” He looked behind Kim. “Don’t you think so, too, Colonel Lew?”

Kim felt ice-cold fear stab clear up his spine as he heard a familiar voice say, “Certainly, Comrade General Secretary.”

He turned slowly and saw Lew standing there with his pistol drawn. It was aimed precisely at Kim’s face.

Tai’s smug, triumphant voice came from over his shoulder. “Take him away, Colonel. You know what to do.”

Lew nodded without lowering his pistol an inch. “Yes, comrade. I know what to do.”

Other uniformed men entered the bunker and seized the man once known as the Dear Leader by both arms. Without waiting for further orders, they dragged him silent and unprotesting toward the door. An unconnected thought raced through Kim’s frozen mind. Now he knew why rabbits sat motionless when trapped by the cold, glittering eyes of a snake. And it was knowledge he would never have the chance to use.

Behind him, he heard Choi speaking urgently to the others still in the room. “Come, comrades. There is no time to lose. We must signal Beijing immediately. We must tell them that their conditions for a cease-fire have been met. This foolish war must be ended while there is still time left to us.”