He laid his glasses, watch, and security badge on the nightstand by the bed and slid under the covers. A warm hand came up to gently stroke his face. He opened his eyes to see his wife propped up on one elbow. She smiled and bent down over him. “Hi, there. Glad you’re home.”
God, she was beautiful. The moonlight gleamed in his wife’s corn-silk-fine, blond hair and illuminated her pert, freckled nose, delicate, oval face, and baby-blue eyes. His heart turned over with a thump, and he felt a sense of childlike wonder that it still did that whenever he saw her. Even after seven years of marriage.
He and Mandy had met as graduate students on a summer studies tour of Japan, and he’d fallen head over heels in love with her in hours — bowled over by the combination of beauty, intelligence, and a husky, Southern voice. He still didn’t know exactly what she’d seen in him.
He just thanked God he hadn’t completely lost whatever it was, despite the constant strain imposed by the hundred-hour workweeks his job often demanded. And it wasn’t just a strain on him, he thought guiltily. He never seemed to be around when Kary was sick or Mandy needed his help. They’d exchanged some cold words over times like that. But so far they’d both been able to find their way back into love out of the cold. So far. Still, there were a lot of days when he regretted the pride and ambition that had made him forsake a quiet, university teaching career for the “glamor” of an NSC staff post.
Fowler reached both arms around her, holding her close, marveling at her warmth. “Sorry I’m so late.” He kissed her neck. “I should have called.”
She sighed, wriggling closer still so that she lay pressed against him. “It would have been nice. But after I saw the news reports, I knew you’d be late.” She laughed quietly. “Don’t worry, Dr. Fowler, I didn’t file a missing person’s report.”
He tensed. He hadn’t even turned on the office television that evening. “What happened? Was it something about Korea?”
He could almost feel Mandy’s surprise. “I thought you knew. They had another riot somewhere over there with more shooting. Someplace called Kwangju, I think. It was on the eleven-o’clock news.”
Damn. Goddamnit. The South Koreans were their own worst enemies.
He reached over for his glasses and badge as the phone started to ring.
Jack McLaren sipped his tea appreciatively and set his cup down. He met the eyes of the four-star general sitting across from him. “Aju masisumnida. It’s very delicious.”
General Park, Chairman of the South Korean Joint Chiefs of Staff, smiled politely. “Your Korean is improving greatly, General McLaren. Someday I am sure I will mistake you for one of my countrymen.” Park was a small, dapper man. The uniform fitted his wiry frame precisely. He was obviously in excellent condition.
“Thank you. But you’re already much more fluent in my language than I will ever be in yours.”
General Park bowed slightly to acknowledge the compliment. “Would you care for some more of this tea? Or perhaps there is something else I can offer you that would be more to your taste?”
Yeah, McLaren thought, how about putting an end to all this pussyfooting around and getting down to business. He controlled the urge to let his impatience show plainly. In Rome, you spoke Italian. In Bonn, you drank beer. And in Seoul, you suffered through half an hour of meaningless pleasantries before it was considered polite to talk seriously.
He had to admit, though, that he’d seen meetings in Washington that might have gone more smoothly had those involved spent a little time getting to know each other better.
But he already knew General Park all too well. Park’s combat record as a battalion commander during the Vietnam War had been very good. He’d been deeply involved in politics since then, though, and it showed.
McLaren understood the disdain military men like General Park felt for the fractious politicians and the unending political disputes South Korea seemed to breed, but he didn’t see how they thought they could do much better. Hell, you couldn’t run a growing, prosperous country along strict military lines forever, and if you developed the kinds of political skills needed to run a democracy, you wound up just being another politician like all the rest. And Park was almost all politician these days.
McLaren drained his teacup and shook his head as Park’s aide leaned forward to pour more tea. The Korean general delicately set his own cup back on the tray and motioned his aide out of the room.
Park sat back in his chair. “There, my friend, we are alone now.” He smiled. “So we are free to discuss things … candidly, as you Americans would say.”
McLaren nodded. “Good. First things first. I’d like to commend your troops for the way they handled that NK commando raid near Ulchin this morning. That was damned fine work.”
A group of North Korean commandos had been landed by submarine, with a mission somewhere inland. While not routine, the North launched such a raid approximately once a month. Their usual missions included sabotage and assassination. Whatever mayhem had been planned this time, the heavy defenses that ringed the coast had stopped it cold, right on the beach.
“They were simply doing their duty. But of course I shall be happy to pass your commendation on to their division commander. He will be delighted, I am sure, to receive praise from the commander of all our Combined Forces.”
McLaren heard the carefully controlled bitterness in Park’s voice but let it pass. He’d known this was a difficult command situation before he’d accepted the assignment to head allied forces in South Korea. The South Koreans, understandably, were increasingly unhappy with a chain of command that put an American general with forty thousand troops in charge of the entire six-hundred-thousand-man South Korean military.
He looked straight into Park’s eyes before continuing. “But I can’t go along with this last request of yours. There simply are no valid military reasons to pull the 3rd Infantry Division back from the DMZ to the interior.”
Park’s face was impassive. “I must protest your hasty decision. Surely your staff has shown you the figures on the recent upsurge of attempted communist landings.”
“Yes, my South Korean staff officers have shown me their studies. But I also know that the forces already in place along the coast haven’t had much trouble coping with these latest landings. They don’t need reinforcements.”
McLaren leaned forward. “Look, General. I’m well aware that you want those men posted back in the cities to help you control these student demonstrations. And I’m sure you’re equally well aware that my country simply can’t countenance the use of regular military forces to put down civil unrest.”
“General McLaren.” Park’s anger was starting to show. “These riots are being sparked by terrorist agitators. My government is not facing simple crowds of unruly students. These radicals are being led by a hard-core communist cadre.”
“Bullshit.” Damn. McLaren was glad there were no State Department flunkies around to hear his undiplomatic language. But that was what they got for sending a combat soldier on a diplomatic fishing expedition. “Cut the crap, General. I don’t doubt for a minute that the bastards up in Pyongyang are salivating over all the trouble down here. But don’t try to feed me that stuff about these students being controlled by the commies. It ain’t going to wash — here or in Washington.”
Surprisingly, General Park smiled. “Very well. If you can speak so bluntly, then so can I. But I shall deny ever having said this, you understand?”