“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.”