The M-577 command vehicle swayed as it rounded a corner at high speed. McLaren stood high in the commander’s hatch, braced against the personnel carrier’s kidney-rattling ride. From where he stood, he could see the whole headquarters column as it wound its way west along the highway. Tanks and troop carriers were thrown out ahead and behind for security, trucks and command carriers intermingled in the middle, and a flight of helicopter gunships orbited overhead, covering the entire mile-long convoy.
The column slowed as it passed through the smoldering, bombed-out ruins of a small town. Corpses and wrecked vehicles dotted the flat, snow-covered fields outside the village. Most were North Korean. Some were not.
The M-577 bucked sharply as its treads ground over a partially filled-in shell crater, and it turned another corner, slowing still more as it passed a column of men marching east on foot — grinning South Korean MPs guarding dazed-looking prisoners. The MPs saluted as McLaren’s command vehicle roared by, and he returned their salutes with a grin of his own.
The prisoners they were guarding were a clear-cut indication of just how successful Thunderbolt had been so far. Up to this point in the war the NKs had always fought fanatically — often to the last man. Now that was changing. They were beginning to surrender — often en masse. McLaren could feel the tide turning in his favor.
There were other indications of success. Intelligence estimated that his troops had crushed four North Korean infantry divisions in the thirty-six hours since that attack began. Several others had been hammered so heavily that they were now judged completely combat ineffective.
Better still, his armored spearheads had already penetrated up to fifty kilometers, and the NKs still showed no signs of being able to mount a coordinated counterattack. Most of their best divisions remained locked in combat around Taejon, seemingly unable, or unwilling, to break free and march north. Without them the North Koreans couldn’t possibly stop his forces before they reached the sea. And given another forty-eight hours of uninterrupted, broken-field running like this, McLaren knew he could bring victory within reach.
Then he saw a Soviet-made T-62 sitting abandoned off on the shoulder of the road and felt his smile fading. The Russians were the imponderable — the five-hundred-pound gorilla who could jump in at the last minute and wreck everything.
He’d seen the reports. The Soviets had powerful task forces at sea. Their bomber forces were on full alert. And now Category I tank and motorized rifle divisions had been spotted massing at North Korean border crossing points. McLaren shook his head. Were the Soviets really prepared to risk going to war for their North Korean clients?
Jesus, he hoped not. This war was bad enough.
The column sped onward, moving west toward the Yellow Sea, and McLaren moved with it, silently pondering his options if the Cold War suddenly burst into bright-red flame.
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?”