Red Phoenix

CHAPTER 43 End Game

None of those gathered in the Oval Office for early-morning coffee had slept save in brief, unconnected snatches. They’d been kept busy all night by a continuous stream of ever more urgent developments — trooping back and forth between the basement-level Situation Room and the more comfortable trappings of the Oval Office itself.

First had come fragmentary reports that the Soviets were reducing the alert status of their forces throughout the world. Those reports had been confirmed by a late-night hotline conversation between the President and the General Secretary — their first direct contact in weeks. The Russian had seemed strangely apologetic, and both men had agreed to treat the series of clashes between their armed forces as a series of regrettable accidents. Tensions were still high, but they seemed more manageable now.

Next, NSA, Japanese, and South Korean monitoring stations had all reported a sudden cessation of Radio Pyongyang’s normal mix of boastful propaganda and martial music. It had been replaced by a somber and uninterrupted medley of funeral dirges.

Finally, satellite photos and communications intercepts all showed unmistakable signs of a massive Soviet exodus from North Korea.

It all pointed to one thing, and Blake Fowler shook his head in rueful admiration as he glanced through the Chinese government’s proposal for what seemed the thousandth time. China was getting everything it had bargained for and more. Much more. He wondered how the Russians had ever come to believe that they were the world’s greatest chess masters.

Blake looked up as the President’s desk phone buzzed.

“Yes?” The President sounded awake, though he didn’t look it. “Go on.”

Blake and the others watched as the President listened quietly for several minutes without speaking. At last he hung up with a simple, “Thank you, Mike. Now go home and get some rest.”

Then he bowed his head for almost a minute, still silent. At last he looked up at Bannerman, Simpson, Blake, and the others waiting anxiously. His face was absolutely expressionless. “Admiral Simpson?”

“Yes, Mr. President?”

“I want you to contact General Carpenter immediately.” Blake caught the faint glimmering of a suppressed smile on the President’s face. He looked years younger. “Tell him I want those Military Airlift Command planes on their way to Beijing within the hour.”

Blake understood and grinned, but the others still hadn’t caught on.

The President saw their uncomprehending stares and care-lined faces and took pity on them. “Ladies and gentlemen, that was the communications room. Radio Pyongyang is reporting that Kim Jong-Il is dead. Kim Il-Sung is still alive but he’s an invalid. And Beijing has just announced that the new North Korean government has agreed unconditionally to the PRC’s ceasefire proposals. All hostilities on land, in the air, and at sea are scheduled to end in six hours. The Chinese have relayed a North Korean request that we end our radio jamming so that they can inform their forces trapped in the south.”

He smiled openly. “In other words, ladies and gentlemen, the war is over. The killing is over.”

Blake knew that wasn’t quite accurate, but it was close enough. The balance of power in the Pacific had shifted. The eternal seesaw between China and Russia in North Korea had ended, with the Chinese turning the north into a puppet state. Russia’s Pacific strategy lay in the same grave as Kim Jong-Il.

The Chinese wanted South Korea as a trading partner. To keep the trade flowing, they would have to lower the tensions, open the North’s borders, and stop the terrorism. It was a little early to talk about reunification, but there would be a lot less heat and a lot more light in that corner of the world.

Now he could rest. Now they could all rest.

McLaren stood outside his camouflaged command vehicle, listening to the distant sounds of war. Heavy artillery rumbled far off, a concussive, rolling series of muffled whumps that he could feel as well as hear — something like a cross between the sound of a fireworks display and a thunder-filled summer storm.

He glanced at his watch: 1359 hours, local time. And as he listened, the noise faded and then fell away entirely — leaving behind a strange, empty silence. With a sudden shock McLaren realized that it was the first real, waking quiet he had known since the war began. His days and nights had been filled with the background drumbeat of war — artillery barrages, clanking tank treads, roaring truck engines, static-filled bursts of frantic radio voices, and the distant crackle of small-arms fire.

And now it was over.

Hansen swung down out of the converted armored personnel carrier. He grinned. “All units are checking in, General. As far as we can tell, the cease-fire is in place.”

McLaren bowed his head, genuinely praying for the first time in years. He hadn’t felt able to do so with conviction since his wife’s funeral. But now the words came freely. He thanked God for granting his soldiers a victorious peace, and he prayed for all the dead and wounded, for all those who had suffered so terribly to win that peace. And when he had finished, he raised his head, surprised to find his eyes wet.

McLaren wiped them roughly and blew his nose. “Goddamned winter colds. Always get ’em.”

He looked away across the snow-covered fields, then straightened his shoulders. “Okay, Doug. Let’s get back to it. We’ve got a hell of a lot of work to do before those Chinese paratroopers arrive to make sure this thing stays over.”

Hansen saluted and followed his general in out of the cold winter air.

A cold wind whipped the tent flap and Colonel General Cho Hyun-Jae shivered, despite the feeble warmth emitted by a charcoal burner standing in one corner. The chill he felt had its origins in his despair and not the weather.

They had been defeated. Defeated and disgraced. The ugly words rang endlessly and uselessly in his mind. He had been able to think of nothing else in the three days since the communiqué arrived from Pyongyang — the first real signal he’d received from the high command since shortly after the imperialist counterattack began.

The tersely worded message still lay open atop a desk crowded with crumpled maps, radio gear, and his personal weapons. He stared it unseeing, the cold phrases burned into his mind:

Pyongyang’s orders and the reported death of his patron, Kim Jong-Il, had caught Cho like a thunderclap. In all his years of service, nothing had ever prepared him for the possibility of defeat and still less for abject surrender. It was literally unthinkable. The Korean People’s Army had never known defeat in battle.

Or so its propaganda said, Cho thought.

Reality taught a different lesson. The imperialist counterattack had proved impossible to resist. The enemy moved too fast, supplies were nonexistent, and worst of all, the fascists had complete control of the air. Cho hadn’t seen a friendly aircraft in days.

And now this. His eyes focused again on the message. He had failed — failed his men, failed his country, and failed his Great Leader.

Outside, those few staff officers he had left alive were working diligently to carry out his last orders. Under the eyes of Chinese “peacekeepers,” they were overseeing the destruction of every tank, armored personnel carrier, and artillery piece left to the First Shock Army. Others marshaled the pitiful remnants of his once-proud divisions in temporary holding camps, awaiting the word to march north weaponless.

Cho clenched his fists. That was the final humiliation — to be shepherded home under the eyes of the Chinese like prisoners. And home to what fate? He had no illusions about his own destiny, but what of the thousands of men he commanded? What would happen to them? What would happen to his country?

Even now he found himself unable to imagine a nation led by anyone other than the two Kims. For forty years the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea had been governed by their will and their will alone. Every aspect of public and private life had been regulated by their desires. Now all that was gone — vanished as if it had never been. The Dear Leader was dead, a heroic martyr to the Revolution, they said, and the Great Leader had retired from active government, too ill and sick at heart to carry on. Cho’s whole world had changed in the blink of an eye.

“Comrade General?” The voice of his aide, Captain Sung, startled him. He’d lost track of time. It must be nearly sundown.

“Come in.” Cho stood and straightened his uniform. Appearances must be preserved at all costs.

The tent flap opened, admitting a gust of frigid air, Lieutenant General Chyong, and an officer he didn’t recognize, a tall, gaunt-faced man in a crisp, unwrinkled uniform.

Under layers of fatigue and dirt, Chyong’s face looked as if it had been carved from stone. “I’m sorry to intrude, Comrade. But Senior Colonel Yun” — he pointed to the newcomer — ”has just arrived from Pyongyang with important dispatches.”

Cho couldn’t hide his surprise. “From Pyongyang? How is that possible?”

Yun clicked his heels sharply and bowed. “The Chinese People’s Liberation Army was kind enough to arrange my safe passage through enemy lines.”

“Then your mission must be urgent indeed.” Cho felt colder still. The Chinese bore him little love.

“Indeed it is, Comrade General.” Yun reached into his tunic and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I have special orders for this headquarters from the Korean Workers’ Party.”

There was a deadly formalism behind the man’s polite words, and Cho suddenly realized that the colonel’s uniform bore the insignia of the Political Security Bureau — the secret police organization responsible for ensuring the ideological purity of the armed forces. With trembling fingers Cho reached out and took the paper from Yun’s hand.

It was what he had expected since that first message from Pyongyang arrived.

Cho looked up. “This arrest order applies to General Chyong as well?”

Yun nodded. “Yes, Comrade General. I am commanded to take both of you back to Pyongyang to stand trial before a Workers’ Court.”

Chyong interrupted for the first time and demanded, “On what charge?”

The colonel eyed him coldly for a moment before replying, “On charges of high treason, of conniving with the enemy, and of deliberately engineering defeat.”

Chyong’s anger overrode any other consideration. “What fools have put together that tissue of lies?”

“The new General Secretary of the Party and his new minister of public security. And you would do well to remember to show them the proper respect.” Yun’s hand dropped to his holstered pistol.

Cho laid a hand on his subordinate’s shoulder, restraining him as Chyong bit back a bitter curse. “And why have they chosen us for this singular treatment?”

The colonel chose his words carefully. “It is felt in Pyongyang that the ‘masterful’ strategic plan of our departed Dear Leader was” — he paused — “poorly executed.”

Yun spread his hands and stared into Cho’s eyes. “You and Lieutenant General Chyong commanded the main elements of this offensive. Its success or failure hinged on your actions, your skills.”

“We did everything possible to ensure success,” Chyong answered heatedly. “We were defeated by a combination of superior air and naval power. Our ground forces performed superbly. Nothing more could have been asked of them. Look at our rates of advance, at the casualties we inflicted on the enemy. If you want scapegoats, find them in Pyongyang. By every objective standard, General Cho and I have — ”

“Comrade General, please.” Yun’s voice was ice cold. “The issue is not what was done, but what was not done. The liberation failed, and that is enough to convict you a thousand times over.”

He looked back at Cho, who still stood motionless. “In any event, that is unimportant here. For the moment you are both relieved of command. Your respective deputies should be able to supervise the withdrawal of our troops.” His last words were spat out as if they carried a foul taste.

“I see.” Cho stepped back and sat clumsily in his camp chair. He lifted his eyes to Yun and in a flat, emotionless voice asked, “These are the most serious charges I can imagine the State bringing against any person. What penalty will the State exact if we are found guilty?”

“Death.” Yun didn’t try to soften it in any way.

Cho nodded. He knew the kind of trial he and Chyong would be given. It would be public, humiliating, and absolutely merciless. Their guilt or innocence would not be a factor. They would serve as the State’s whipping boys, as the men who failed their people. No, he thought, remembering Yun’s words, as the men who had deliberately sabotaged the now-dead Dear Leader’s strategy.

And at the end? Nothing to look forward to except a public execution. He nodded slowly to himself, calm now that the decision had been made for him.

Chyong paid him little attention. He stood eye to eye with Yun, raging. “These charges are absurd! Our only crime is that we failed to win.”

“That, Comrade General, is the only crime that matters,” Yun replied.

Cho stood again, outwardly composed. “Colonel Yun, I submit to your arrest.” He looked meaningfully at the man. “But I would like your permission to be alone for a few minutes. I have some personal business to attend to.”

Yun studied him carefully and at length nodded. “Certainly, Comrade General. You will have all the time you need.”

“Thank you, Colonel. I appreciate your kindness.” Cho turned to his subordinate. “You must excuse me, Chyong, but I must ask you to leave as well. I wish you good fortune.”

“Of course, sir.” Chyong’s understanding showed in his eyes. He saluted and stalked out of the tent, followed closely by the colonel.

Slowly Cho’s shoulders sagged and he sank back into his chair. For a moment he considered writing a letter to his wife, but then decided against it. He had brought her enough pain already. His hand reached for the pistol atop his desk.

The muffled sound of the shot from inside the tent startled Chyong, even though he had known it would come. He stood rigid facing the closed tent flap.

Yun’s voice came from behind him. “So, General Cho has chosen the easier path. Well, he looked like a wise man to me.”

Chyong didn’t turn around. His voice dripped with contempt. “General Cho was an older man, worn down by this war. I have no intention of making things so easy for you and your Chinese cronies. Go ahead. Put me on trial. I’ll fight your lies and falsehoods at every turn.”

Chyong heard Yun unsnap his pistol holster and sigh. “You soldiers … you are so blind at times.”

Chyong started to turn, but the bullet caught him first.

Blake Fowler scanned the draft press release quickly, not at all surprised by its contents.

“See any problems?” the President asked blandly.

He shook his head and handed it back to the White House communications director, who sat beside him in front of the President’s desk.

The phone buzzed. Blake saw the President pick it up, listen, and smile. “Sure, June, send him right on in.”

The President hung up and grinned at his two subordinates. “Gentlemen, it seems that my esteemed national security adviser seeks an audience. I’ve always said he had perfect timing.”

The door to the antechamber opened and Putnam came in, stuffed uncomfortably into a brand-new, double-breasted suit and silk tie that looked one size too small. His hair was now more gray than red, and he wore a grim, determined expression.

“Now, George, what can I do for you this morning?” The President’s voice was genial, but his eyes were cold.

“I’ve come to submit my resignation, Mr. President.” Putnam handed him a single-spaced, single-page letter. His hands shook. “I waited until this terrible crisis was over so that both you and the nation wouldn’t be deprived of my services when they were most needed. But now, I feel compelled to withdraw from this administration.”

“You’re leaving your post?” the President asked, seemingly thunderstruck. Blake hid a grin. The critics who said the nation’s chief executive couldn’t act had obviously never seen him perform in private.

“Yes, Mr. President.” Putnam’s voice rose higher and quavered. “I’ve had all I can take. You’ve systematically cut me out of any substantive policy role over these past few weeks. Instead, you’ve chosen to rely on political neophytes and hapless academics.” He scowled at Blake and then went on. “Well, I won’t stand still for it.”

“I see. Well, then…” The President took Putnam’s letter of resignation, pretended to study it for a moment, and then tore it in half.

Putnam stared at the pieces, utterly surprised. “You’re not accepting my resignation?”

The President shook his head slowly. “No, I’m not, Mr. Putnam.” He turned to the director of communications. “Rick, show him what you’ve got there.”

Putnam took the draft press release and started reading it. Halfway through he turned sheet-white and stopped. “You’re firing me?”

The President nodded somberly. “Absolutely, Mr. Putnam. And publicly, too. You lied to me, and your lies helped cause a war that cost tens of thousands of lives.” He paused. “All things considered, I think you’re getting off damned easily.”

Putnam didn’t seem to hear him. “But my career, what will I d — ”

“Get out.” The President didn’t bother to conceal his disdain. “Any personal effects you’ve left in your office will be shipped to your home. But get out of my sight right now.”

Blake watched his former boss leave, unable to suppress a momentary twinge of guilt at the joy he’d felt in seeing the man torn down. But it passed. The President was right. Putnam was getting off easy. Disgrace only mattered if you had a conscience, and that was something the former national security adviser seemed to lack.

He suddenly realized that the President was watching him closely. “Not a pretty sight, was it, Blake?”

“No, sir. It wasn’t.”

The President nodded. “Necessary, though.” He picked up a file folder from off his desk. “Now, that brings me to my next problem. Having rid myself of the son of a bitch, I need to find a replacement for him. Got any ideas?”

Blake thought carefully. “Well, Mr. President. There are any number of qualified people I’d recommend. There’s — ”

“Yes, I know there are,” the President interrupted him. “But there’s one man I’ve heard some very good things about. People tell me he’d make a top-notch adviser. I’m inclined to nominate him, but I’d like to know what you think first.” He hefted the folder and passed it to Blake. “Here’s his personnel file.”

Blake looked at the name stenciled across the top of the folder — DR. BLAKE FOWLER — and blinked. He sat still, thinking hard. It would mean more work and more hours away from his family. But it was also work he could do and do well. And Mandy would back him. Hell, she’d kill him if he turned this down.

He looked up at the President and smiled. “I think he’d be very honored, Mr. President.”

Seoul, though battered, was unbowed.

With rubble still blocking key streets and armed soldiers standing guard on every corner, Seoul’s merchants and restaurateurs were bringing their city back to life as fast as they could. Their guts and native drive were a constant reminder that South Korea’s identification with the phoenix was apt indeed.

Tony Christopher had picked the restaurant tonight with great care. The Yongsuan was one of the best. Not cheap, but money wasn’t very important right now — and certainly not tonight.

This place was perfect for his purpose. They served authentic Korean royal court dishes in private rooms. They’d also been lucky enough to escape any war damage. One of his other favorite hangouts wasn’t much more than a hole in the ground and a few charred timbers.

Tony admired Anne in the candlelight. The rich decor of the room complemented both her dress and her red hair. She’d been talking about her work rebuilding the Army’s battered logistics system, and Tony had been half-listening in a mode known to men the world over. He wasn’t bored, but there were other matters on his mind.

Tonight they were celebrating the second week of peace since the official armistice. At least that was the reason he’d given her when he’d made the date. He smiled suddenly. She’d probably even believed him.

Anne stopped talking momentarily to smile back and then went on. “So anyway, everything was so scrambled, they’re really letting us start from scratch. I just finished blocking out a completely new system. New computers, new software, new procedures.”

Tony made an enthusiastic sound somewhere down in his throat and then started his approach. “Anne, can I change the subject for just a second?”

“Of course, darling.” She smiled brilliantly and then deepened her voice, trying out a thick French accent. “Ah, my darleeing, let us, how you say, talk about us.”

He chuckled softly, then looked closer at her. “No, really, Anne. I have some important news.” His serious expression erased her smile.

There was no easy way to say it. “I received new orders this morning — posting me back to the States. They want me to do some intelligence work at Nellis, then I take over as the ops officer of the Aggressor Squadron.”

Anne could hear the mixture of pride and sorrow in his voice and wondered which was stronger.

She sat silent for a moment or two, and then in a quiet, even voice she asked him, “Where is Nellis?”

“Just outside Las Vegas.”

Five thousand miles away. “When do you have to leave?”

Tony looked down at his hands. “In nine days. I’m turning my ops duties over to ‘Otto’ Sanchez. He’s a good man. And Hooter’s going to be the new leader for First Flight.”

He reached out and took her hand. “Look, Anne, this wasn’t supposed to happen so suddenly. Technically my tour wasn’t supposed to be up for another two and a half months. The Air Force just wants to get its combat veterans into the training system as quickly as possible. Also, I think the combat losses we suffered have screwed up the normal rotation…”

Tony stopped talking and looked closely at Anne. In the soft candlelight it was hard to see that she was weeping softly. “Honey?”

She spoke quietly. “I was so happy. Everything was going so well. This messes up everything.”

“No, it doesn’t.” He took a small, felt-covered box out of his pocket and opened it. Moving carefully, almost tenderly, he set it on the table in front of Anne.

He took a deep breath and whispered, “Will you marry me?”

Anne just looked at it. Her expression changed, from sorrow to surprise to joy to shock and then to confusion. Inside the box was a beautiful diamond ring.

She started to reach out for it, but suddenly she pulled her hand back. “I don’t know, Tony. It’s too quick. Is this wise?”

He felt his heart racing in panic. Christ, this was a lot worse than flying combat. “Anne, I love you, and you love me. I want us to have a future together.”

Her eyes closed and Tony saw the tears glistening in her long lashes. “I love you, too, but I wasn’t ready to think about marriage.”

He reached out and took her other hand, feeling her pulse jump against his fingers. “We might have had two more months before I rotated out at the end of my one-year tour, but this is forcing our hand. The war shocked me into understanding how I felt about you — ”

“Me, too,” she added quietly.

“ — and now the aftermath is forcing my hand again.”

“Our hands,” she said.

Tony leaned closer. “Anne, I can’t think of any other way to say this. I really love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want to marry you because, scary as the thought of marriage is, the thought of being apart is even more scary.”

Her eyes opened and the hint of a smile appeared on his lips. “Keep talking, I love the things you say.”

He felt himself turning red. “C’mon, Anne, I’m dead serious.”

She smiled again, more gently this time. “And so am I. I love you, and I do love what you’re saying. I also want to marry you, but really, sweetheart, is this wise?”

“Look, Anne, I’m not talking about getting married tomorrow, but when I thought of me being in the States and you being here, I couldn’t stand it. We might have arrived at the same decision in a month or two. My orders just gave us a nudge.” He smiled tentatively. “And in the right direction, too, I hope.”

Anne sat, considering. She pretended to frown. “This really isn’t fair. You’ve had all day to decide to ask me, and now I have to decide yes or no right now.”

Tony grinned. “You don’t have to decide right now. Of course, I’ll be in turmoil until you do.”

“I have decided.” She kissed him, disengaged her hands, and picked up the ring. “Do you think we can get all the arrangements made in less than nine days?”

Kevin Little walked quietly down the long row of hospital beds, looking for a familiar face. He found it near the end.

Rhee lay half-propped up against a pillow, reading a newspaper. He glanced up at Kevin’s footsteps and quickly laid the newspaper aside. Bandages still covered the upper part of his chest, and he looked much thinner than Kevin remembered him. But his eyes were clear, and the South Korean’s smile was still as jaunty as ever.

“This is an honor, Lieutenant…,” Rhee started to say, and then stopped, staring at the twin silver bars on Kevin’s uniform jacket. “I mean, this is an honor, Captain Little. Please allow me to congratulate you on your promotion, sir.”

Taken aback by the South Korean’s earnest formality, Kevin forced a shamefaced grin. “Yeah, it surprised the hell out of me, too. The brass’ll probably take it back once they’ve had the chance to sober up.”

Rhee smiled again. “I don’t think so, Captain. The rank suits you.” He gestured to a chair beside his bed. “Please, sit down, sir.”

Kevin sat and felt more at ease. Now that he and Rhee were on the same level, their conversation flowed more naturally. It soon turned to current events.

“Well, we’re being kept pretty busy as I guess you could expect. Resettling refugees. Dealing with would-be NK defectors. Clearing rubble. You name it and we’re up to our necks in it.” Kevin shook his head. “Hell, sometimes I think winning the war was the easy part. It’s winning the peace that’s hard.”

Rhee grinned lazily. “Ah, Captain, how I regret being unable to lend you a helping hand.” He waved toward the pretty, white-frocked nurses working at the other end of the ward. “Alas, my prison guards there have assured me that I’ll be kept chained here for another few weeks.”

Kevin shook his head in admiration. “Jesus Christ, Rhee, only you could think of a way to get wounded just to dodge all the real work.”

The South Korean’s grin grew wider still, reminding Kevin of a certain fabled cat. Then Rhee’s expression grew more sober and he asked a serious question. “What has happened to the company?”

“It’s gone.” Kevin couldn’t keep the hurt out of his voice, even though he’d known it had to happen. He’d grown to love the men of Echo Company. “Echo was just a provisional force. Strictly for the duration only. Once active hostilities ceased, Battalion wanted its clerks, typists, and quartermasters back. So they broke us up.”

Rhee shook his head sadly.

“Well” — Kevin glanced at his watch — “I’ve got to head out for now. The major’s called a conference for later this afternoon and I’ve got to catch my train.” He stood up and rebuttoned his jacket.

Then he turned. “Look, they’ve given me Bravo Company in place of Echo. It’s got some pretty good guys in it, but I’m short an executive officer.” He looked down at the South Korean and said more softly, “I could use you there. You’ve done a pretty good job so far of keeping me alive and on track.”

Rhee stared at him silently for a moment and then slowly shook his head. “No, Captain, you don’t need me anymore for that. You’ve become a soldier on your own.”

Kevin thought about that for a second and nodded abruptly. “Maybe so.” Then, suddenly, he smiled and asked, “But who the hell do you expect me to play poker with if you’re not there?”

For once the South Korean was the one caught at a loss for words.

Kevin grinned wider himself and tossed Rhee the pack of cards he’d brought along. “So you’d better get well fast, Lieutenant. And you’d better practice up while doing it. I don’t play with amateurs.”

He looked down at his friend. “I’ll see you up at the Z in a few weeks. You’ll like it up there. It’s a pretty quiet place these days.”

And with that, he turned and walked out of the ward, whistling.